


Limited

by adslady



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, F/M, Horcruxes, I don't know what happens in fantastic beasts so i'm ignoring it, Ilvermorny, POV Tom Riddle, Possessive Tom Riddle, Pureblood Politics, Slow Burn, Strong AF female lead, Strong Female Characters, Time Skips, Tom Riddle's Diary, angst but worth it in the end, maybe some sex depends on how i feel, no beta reader we die like men, transfer student, yeah so definitely some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 58
Words: 315,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24658693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adslady/pseuds/adslady
Summary: Brilliant, indifferent, thunderous Tom Riddle who was like an explosion happening inside a steel cage. Enigmatic and haunting and probably not worth her time but Florence couldn't look away...It's 1944 and Florence Allman is set to debut to the Wizarding Society of the Southeastern United States in less than a year, which means in less than a year she will be eligible for marriage. Except that she's not ready for that, at least not yet. When her father, a wealthy businessman and plantation owner is offered a deal by the British Ministry of Magic to help fight Gellert Grindelwald, Florence accompanies him from Georgia to England where she is to complete her seventh year of magical education at Hogwarts and experience some of life before it's taken away from her forever. Except that she's woefully behind in her studies, and even worse, there's this boy.
Relationships: Tom Riddle/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 709
Kudos: 375





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Hello it's me - Adslady - writing this after having just completed this story. I just wanted to come back to the beginning and say if you are just now finding this, first off welcome! And second, I may not be as active as before, but rest assured I will check my email and see all of your kudos and comments, and I will always cherish them from afar! I do hope you enjoy this story, it's been a labor of love.
> 
> Thanks for being here and happy reading Xx
> 
> Another edit: If you are going to translate my work, please ask permission first and give me proper credit. Thanks Xx

Chapter 1

“There are no happy endings.  
Endings are the saddest part,  
So just give me a happy middle  
And a very happy start.”

  
― Shel Silverstein, Every Thing on It

There is nothing like the Great Hall in Spectre. Not to say that there are not beautiful, stately rooms where she grew up, but none of them hold a torch to the ceiling which is as fathomless as the stars it holds, floating candles flickering across her vision like a medieval fantasy. It’s _fabulous._ Florence knows that her mouth has fallen open, and she can hear her mother’s nagging voice at the back of her mind telling her she will catch flies, but she just can’t help it. There are plenty of old things in America, but nothing like Hogwarts, and _nothing_ like this Great Hall which sings of magic, magic, _magic_.

“Where are you from, Florence?” A voice says, persistently, as if it is asking for the second time. Ripping her eyes away the splendor before her, she meets the gaze of the girl sitting across from her, blue eyes cool and open in their curiosity. Her voice seems genuine, despite its annoyance at having to ask twice.

“The States,” she answers quickly, feeling the familiar flush across her cheeks. She’s never called it the States before, always America - Georgia specifically - but ever since she and her father arrived in England a month ago she’d been fascinated by the British insistence in referring to the U.S. as the States.

“I don’t think we’ve had a transfer student from the States,” the boy beside her says, clearly listening in. He has sandy colored hair, brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks that reminds her of fireflies in the evening. “Or at least, not since we’ve been at Hogwarts.”

“Do you get many transfer students?” Florence asks, her gaze dancing between the boy and the girl across from her. She wants to commit their faces to memory. Her mother has always told her that remembering a face and a name will get young women a long way in this world. Where in particular that is, she’s never specified. Still, it seems like good advice for the current climate.

“Not many,” the girl, who Florence remembers introduced herself only moments ago as Elizabeth Greengrass, says. “Of course, there are always a few from Beauxbatons here and there, and even rarer, a Durmstrang, but like Philip said – no _Americans_.” Elizabeth emphasizes the last word as if she expects Florence to suddenly sprout wings and fly away. Beside Florence, the boy who she assumes must be Philip leans his elbow on the table so that he can rest his cheek upon his hand and better take in the new girl seated beside him.

“What year did you say you were?”

“Seventh,” Florence confirms, and she feels a shiver run through her when she says it. Seventh years are the oldest at Hogwarts, she’s learned, something her father warned her she was wildly unprepared for.

“I know your Governess has taught you well, Florence,” he’d said as they’d strolled through the charming little manor home they’d adopted for their European stay in Somerset, pointing out various aspects of the seventeenth century architecture like they were no more than candied peaches. “But the practical lessons will prove challenging. Hogwarts has a strenuous curriculum – it took all of my _convincing_ to let Headmaster Dippet allow you in with your proper age group instead of holding you back a few years.”

 _Convincing._ That’s what her father would say when he felt uncomfortable explaining he’d spent a vast sum of money to get his way. It was hard, she supposed, for someone nice to have so much authority. He hated to use it – except where his family was concerned.

“Fantastic!” Philip smiled, his brown eyes crinkling as he took in Florence. “So are me and Liz.”

“And you’re in Ravenclaw?” Elizabeth continues, her questions seemingly endless. Florence nods with an even broader smile.

“But when were you sorted? The firsties haven’t even gotten a go at the hat yet, have they?” Philip muses, his brow puckering in confusion.

“I had a meeting this summer with Headmaster Dippet and my father to discuss the potential for a transfer while my dad is stationed for work. Once they agreed it was fine for me to take classes, he went ahead and sorted me. Said it would be weird for me to sort with all of the kids,” Florence explains, recalling the nausea that had welled within her as the sorting hat peered into her mind, taking its time to peel through her memories like they were no more than the glossy pages of a fashion magazine.

“ _Interesting,_ very _interesting_ ,” the voice like paper had whispered, and sweat had formed on her lower back, cool and unsettling. Nothing had ever entered her consciousness before, and the hats voice made bile want to climb its way up her throat and out of her mouth onto the floor.

“Fiercely independent, bright enough I suppose, and _proud._ Yes, so very, very _proud_ ,” the hat hissed, tightening upon her head until her temples started to pound. “But what to do with you?” It had said nothing further, much to Florence’s relief, until what felt like years later, shouting: “RAVENCLAW” into the headmaster’s study.

Glancing up and down the table as she recalls the hat’s words, she wonders what invisible qualities tie the Ravenclaws she now considers hers together? Labels, she’s always known, are important. Florence thinks her great grandmother taught her that there is power in a name before she could even walk, surely before she could speak. So who, or what, was this hat, this semi-sentient being, to pick apart her thoughts and throw her into this house, and _why?_ She’d read _Hogwarts, a History_ , but it had been decidedly sparse when it came to the four founders. It had raised more questions that it had answered.

Florence has no time to consider further what defines her house as she notices the telltale sounds of silence falling around her. Philip taps her shoulder and points to the raised platform at the front of the hall where Headmaster Dippet has taken the podium, survey the assembled students as if they were a boring office memo he is being forced to read aloud. His bald head is polished to such perfection that she can see flickers of light from multiple different candles reflected upon his skin. She tries not to laugh.

“It is with great pleasure that I welcome each and every one of you back to Hogwarts for another year,” he begins in a tone that says it is not, in fact, a great pleasure. Dippet had not been overly friendly during her visit, but then again, having never attended a school of any sort, Florence had nothing to compare him against when it came to teaching, and had tried to judge him accordingly. “The teaching staff and I are thrilled to begin another year of your education, and whether you are a first year beginning your journey, or a seventh year preparing to leap into the Wizarding World at the conclusion of your studies, we wish you the best of luck for classes this term.”

There is a light smattering of applause which Florence joins in, and then to her surprise, Dippet steps away from the podium and the table before her is suddenly flooded with copious amounts of food. Her nose is assaulted, her eyes too as she attempts to determine what all of the foods she is looking at are.

“Short and sweet, aye?” Philip says with a smile, reaching for a roll and the serving himself what looks like an undefined piece of red meat wrapped in pastry. All around Florence the students are tackling the food with ardor, the volume within the Great Hall swelling once more as conversations begin again in earnest.

“I wish he would do the sorting _before_ the feast began like they did in our first year,” Elizabeth chimes with a deep sigh, tapping her gold-rimmed goblet with her wand so that it suddenly fills with sparkling water. Florence can feel that her mouth has fallen open once more.

“Yeah, but that was before Dippet was headmaster though. He likes to streamline things,” Philip says. Florence watches as he cuts a massive slice out of the still unknown meat and pops it into his mouth.

“Not hungry, Florence?” Elizabeth asks, eyeing her still empty plate with another cool look, which Florence deduces she casts often, probably unknowingly. Against her will her cheeks warm, and she stares purposefully at her own empty goblet as if the etchings are suddenly the most delicate she’s ever seen.

“I don’t actually know what a lot of these foods are,” she admits, the temperature across her face becoming unbearable.

“Well you’ve got to start with the beef wellington,” Philip exclaims, his mouth falling open despite is currently _full_ status, reaching forward to serve her a slice.

“Gross, Philip,” Elizabeth condemns, giving him another of her cool stares. Philip sticks out his tongue full of half-chewed food before swallowing and winking at Florence. Despite the horrendous manners he’s just displayed, Florence laughs.

“And try the shepherd’s pie,” Philip adds, taking a large scoop of a beige and brown meat and potato soufflé and plopping it onto Florence plate.

“Just tap your wand for what you want to drink.”

“And avoid the beans, don’t want to smell up your dormitory on your first night aye?”

Florence can feel herself beaming. When Philip and Elizabeth’s eyes have returned to their own plates, she samples the two servings she’s been given. The shepherd’s pie is creamy and rich, and the crust on the wellington practically explodes with flakey layers. It’s nothing like she’s had before. She loves it.

As the students dive into the various platters before them, the doors at the far end of the hall are thrust open and a stream of seemingly miniscule students teeter into the hall, their eyes, much as Florence’s had been, fixated upon the ceiling. The tops of their heads barely scrape Florence’s chin, despite the fact that she’s sitting, and for the first time since stepping into the castle this evening, she feels a massive sense of relief that she is not standing among them as they make their way to the front of the room to be sorted.

“Ah, fresh meat,” Elizabeth says, her eyes suddenly brighter than Florence has seen them.

“Don’t be a bully.”

“Just pointing it out,” Elizabeth defends, but she smiles at Philip and sips from her sparkling water, her fingers pinching the goblet like she is royalty. Florence’s mother would be proud.

Their meal continues as the students are called forward one by one and asked to take a seat on the three legged stool before the sorting hat is cast upon their heads. For many of them, Florence notes, it is so large it sinks down over their eyes.

“GRYFFINDOR!” The hat shouts, and Florence’s bite of shepherd’s pie turns to slime in her mouth and she must force herself to swallow. That horrible _voice_. _Who gave it the authority to decide where we would end up?_ Of course, from her reading she knows it was the founders of the school, but she grits her teeth despite this knowledge.

“So you said your father is working in England?” Philip asks when he has finally finished his third plateful of food and his hands are laced over his stomach like he might pop.

“Yes. We’ve rented a manor in Somerset for the year so he doesn’t have to keep applying for international portkeys. My dad hates traveling by portkey,” Florence tells them, admiring again the way her goblet fills with water with only the slightest wand tap and thought of intention. She has never had much experience with charms. “And this way, he can floo right into your British ministry as he pleases.”

“Is he a politician?” Elizabeth asks.

“Oh no, my dad’s a businessman I guess you would say. He’s got a sales agreement with your Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” she elaborates, but she feels herself flushing. Phrasing it as a sales agreement was putting things… _lightly._ Florence’s father managed one of the largest transatlantic wizarding shipping companies in either the Americas or Europe and Africa. On top of that, he owned vast swarths of land across the Southeast United States where her father’s family had grown and mass-produced dittany as well as various other potion ingredients.

“What does he sell?”

“Potion ingredients. I think the DMLE wanted a direct supplier instead of using a third party,” she offers vaguely, praying desperately that they won’t ask specifically what her family grows.

Dittany was one of the most lucrative products in the word. Essential for almost any antidote, its essence alone – which resulted from boiling dittany leaves for a few days at high heat – could be applied to most cuts or burns for immediate relief. Originally from Greece, it was an extremely temperamental plant, subject to a short growing season and finicky about rain levels and soil quality. Closing her eyes, Florence could still recall over the stench of the rich, English platters before her the sharp, medicinal scent of Dittany sap.

“Got its own mind, Dittany” her father had told her when she was still small enough for him to hold on his hip, one arm wrapped around her and the other pointing out over the endless rows of the pale green shrub. “Takes a green thumb, the perfect soil, and a lot of magic, my dear.”

“Have we always grown it?” She’d asked following his finger as he presented to her his kingdom. Florence had drank in the sight as if it was mana from heaven. As if the sight of the fields alone could help her grow big and strong like her father.

“Since there’ve been Allman’s in Georgia, sweetie. And there’ve been Allman’s in Georgia longer than Georgia’d care to admit, I’d wager.” His voice was deep and rich, like honey and the deepest, smoothest stones that sat in the center of the river. He’d kissed her on the top of her wavy brown hair then, before setting her down and chasing her out into the field, running through the rows as if he was the one that was four and not Florence.

“SLYTHERIN!” The sorting hat yells, breaking Florence away from her memories and the ache that had started to blossom in her chest. She had not missed a harvest since she was born, and this was to be the first year she would.

“Ah, the ole snakes got the Fawley kid,” Philip says, narrowing his eyes at the table up against the wall. “I like the Fawley’s – I was hoping we’d get him.”

“The Fawley’s are all in Slytherin.” Elizabeth points her fork at Philip. “Have been for generations, don’t be daft.”

“So’s my family,” he said with a shrug. “I’m the first Burke in years who wasn’t in Slytherin. My father still hasn’t forgiven me.”

“Do houses tend to run in the family?” Florence interrupts, unable to help herself. She’d known she was likely to be wildly behind in her classes, but she had not considered that she would also be behind socially. She feels a trickle of annoyance with herself. After all, there were old families in the wizarding South – the Allman’s included. Of course they would have learned it from Europe.

“Sometimes,” Philip explains.

“Usually,” Elizabeth corrects. “The Greengrass’s are fairly split between Slytherin and Ravenclaw if you go back the past few generations. But the Burkes are as snakelike as any of the twenty-eight – Philip was a right disappointment.”

 _Twenty-eight_ she wants to ask, but bites her tongue, somehow sensing that to ask would be to show her decidedly _American_ hand. For the first time, she feels a ripple of annoyance that has nothing to do with her own intelligence, but from the unique feeling of seeing only a piece of the larger whole. There is an acrid taste across the back of her tongue.

“Ah, Avery has the Fawley kid under his arm now. Shame,” Philip sighs, Florence following his gaze to the far table as the eleven year old was pulled into the embrace of a hulking blonde boy.

She is watching the boisterous welcome the “Fawley kid” is receiving when she spots him. He is seated amongst the huddle of what appears to be upperclassmen, his porcelain face framed by neat waves of the darkest chocolate hair, mouth arranged into a tight lipped smile that does not reach his eyes. His incredibly, magnetically dark eyes. _Darker the soil, richer it is_ she hears her father’s rolling voice whisper. Florence does not know if the same principle applies to humans, but the tingling along the base of her neck is practically begging for her to find out. The boy that had leaned forward to shake hands with the newcomer returns to his seat, and the china-doll young man disappears from view.

“Thank god the sorting is over,” Philip comments. With a shake, Florence nods and reaches for her glass, her mouth suddenly dry and wanting. The water brings with it relief that she is not certain has anything to do with her parched throat. She flushes.

“When we get up to the common room, we will have to swap schedules. Hopefully we will have some classes together,” Elizabeth says, sliding a champagne flute filled with colorfully layered fruit trifle towards Florence. In her haze, Florence had not even noticed the dinner plates disappearing, only to be replaced by further mountains of dessert. Again, the cool blue eyes of her fellow seventh year Ravenclaw meet Florence’s own, but there in their depts, is a momentary flicker of warmth, as if she’s just now made up her mind to accept this foreigner as one of their own. Tension Florece did not realize she had been holding in her gut released just a fraction.

“God, I hope so too,” Florence says because she does. Because she knows she is probably about to embarrass herself spectacularly in front of all of her new classmates. Because she’s never not been good at something, or at least not _publicly_ , and she is dreading finding out just how bad she is about to be. Because it will be so much more _bearable_ with at least one friend by her side.

Philip and Elizabeth smile at her.

They finish their desserts as Florence listens to Elizabeth and Philip describe life at Hogwarts. There are trick steps and a poltergeist (thankfully just one) and doors that move every other Tuesday and even a giant squid swimming around in the black lake.

“Ehhh, disgusting,” Florence finds herself saying to this last comment, shaking off the idea of long, inky tentacles shooting from the water and dragging her thrashing body under the waves.

“It’s not that bad. Harmless really. Mostly stays out of the way, but every once in a while some firstie will complain that it tried to tickle them while they were doing their studies down by the shoreline,” Philip says with a shrug. His cheeks have taken on a pink tinge as their meal has gone alone, and Florence can’t help but think he has a friendly face in comparison to Elizabeth’s regal features.

“Well, at least I know I don’t need to be curious about the lake,” Florence replies darkly, mentally striking one part of the property off her list of places to explore.

“Ah, looks like Dippet’s leaving. Should we head up the dormitory?”

The three of them stand almost in unison with the rest of the assembly, the air rent by the sound of benches scrapping across flagstone. Florence sends up a small prayer when Philip and Elizabeth turn to wait for her, flanking her on either side as they slowly marshal through the crowd.

“This way first years!” One boy with a gold “P” pin is yelling, waving his arms over his head so that a crowd of nearly hysterical small children can see him.

“Alexander Thomas! Stop trying to sneak into the Hufflepuff common room,” another voice shrieks.

It is chaos. Florence loves it.

Once they have made it out of the Great Hall and up the grand staircase, the crowd thins and then altogether disappears.

“The common room is in the west wing of the castle, this is the most direct route, but if you get lost any Ravenclaw should be able to direct you,” Elizabeth says in a sharp voice, though it is not unkind.

“Or you can ask the Grey Lady – she’s our house ghost,” Philip adds.

“Oh! There’s a house ghost? We have a ghost that lives on our plantation. I think it’s my fourth great Uncle? Maybe fifth – I don’t know, he died in a horseback accident,” Florence tells them, observing the stone walls which stretch high above their heads. Their footsteps echo upon the marble.

“You live on a plantation?” Philip says, his voice one octave higher than it had been throughout dinner.

“Well yes, we _grow_ potions ingredients.”

Florence realizes as they turn into a stairwell, that she has never had to explain this before. All of her life she has been accustomed to people just knowing who she was and what her family did and what that might mean, depending on the circumstances. She had never found it odd until that moment, which was not helped by the fact that the stairs beneath them gave a shuddering jolt before separating from the wall and beginning to move across the space. Glancing around bewildered, clutching the railing with all her might, she observed the politely unphased faces of Elizabeth and Philip.

“The staircases move,” Elizabeth offers before continuing up the steps to the platform they were not connected to mere moments before. After a deep breath, Florence follows after the pair.

At last they stop outside of a large wooden door with a bronze raven sticking out of its middle. There is no door handle. Florence can feel the copious amounts of food roiling in her stomach, and she thinks they might have arrived not a moment too soon.

“ _I cannot be created, but I can be consumed. What am I?_ ” The bronze raven asks, beady, metal eyes fixed upon them. Florence swallows and stares at her two counterparts, utterly lost.

“Any ideas?” Philip asks, his hands in his pockets.

“I’ve got one, but why don’t you delight us with your answer first,” Elizabeth says pleasantly, cocking her head to the side and smiling broadly. Rolling his eyes, Philip acquiesces.

“Food.”

“Just so,” croaks the raven, and the door swings open to reveal a deep midnight carpet and fine, mahogany furniture and arched windows that frame the night sky like a painting. It’s breathtaking, and if Florence weren’t so exhausted, she might have run across the room to peer into the reading alcove and examine the plaque at the base of the marble statue. As it were, however, she could feel her eyelids drooping and the heat from the crackling fireplace sending her further into a stupor. Beside her, Philip yawns.

“I know we said we’d swap schedules,” he says, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “But I’m beat. See you both in the morning?”

They wish each other goodnight before Philip disappears into and down a staircase which leads to what Florence assumes are the boys dormitories. Without question, she follows Elizabeth as they head towards the only other remaining stairwell which spirals up. Their room is at the top of the steps, and inside are eight beds, only two of which remain unoccupied by either already slumbering or reading figures. Elizabeth waves to one girl who make’s eye contact, but she does not speak.

Their trunks have already be deposited in the room, and Florence fishes for her new silk pajamas her father purchased for her in Diagon Alley only a few weeks ago on their first weekend in England. Pulling them on now, it feels like that was a lifetime ago.

Florence does not remember falling asleep, but she dreams of black tentacles holding flutes of trifle and shooting stars and fields upon fields of dittany stretching on as far as the eye can see.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding a second chapter as a gift to you!! Thank you for all the Kudos, comments, and bookmarks already - I cannot even begin to express how much they mean to me! Let me know what you think - thanks for being here and happy reading Xx

**Chapter 2**

“I am not afraid. Not of life, or death, or nothingness, but of wasting as if I had never been.”

-Daniel Keyes, _Flowers for Algernon_

Elizabeth shakes her awake in the morning, but it is gentle and Florence opens her eyes to find that she is well rested, any residual soreness from the train ride evaporated into the mattress.

“Sorry to wake you so early, but Philip will be cross if we don’t meet him for breakfast,” Elizabeth whispers because several of her yet unknown seventh years are still sleeping around them. “Oh, and don’t forget your books. You won’t want to walk back up here before class. I’ll wait for you in the common room.”

Florence closes her eyes for a moment more before heaving the midnight blue quilt off of her and setting her feet onto the decidedly too cold stone floor. Across the hall in the bathroom Florence relieves herself before glancing in the mirror and attempting to smooth out the thick mess of caramel colored waves that fall just past her shoulders, but it’s hopeless. Conscious that Elizabeth is waiting for her, Florence dashes back across the hall, slips into her uniform, and grabs her satchel and schedule which she blessedly remembered to pack the night before.

“Ready?” Elizabeth asks, looking up from the book the is flipping through when the echo of Florence’s shoes on the stairs reach her.

“As I’ll ever be.” The two girls grin at each other before turning and exiting the common room.

“I have Charms first, let me see your schedule,” Elizabeth demands and Florence hands over the slip of parchment. “Oh _good_ you do too. _And_ we both have double herbology second with the Slytherins.”

“I have a feeling I am _not_ going to be good at Charms.”

“You’ve got to be decent enough,” Elizabeth counters, leading Florence back into the stairwell they used the day prior. The staircase, however, is not there, and they both are forced to wait as the lumbering, hulk of stone crosses the open air to meet them. “After all, Dippet let you into seventh, didn’t he?”

Florence could feel her jaw tensing, and she focuses her eyes upon the staircase which is at last locking with their platform. Under no circumstances would she be telling anyone how woefully inaccurate that was, _or_ that her father had been forced to buy Florence’s way into the seventh year courses. It had always been a point of fierce contention between herself and her family that both Albion and Owen her older brothers had been allowed to attend Ilvermorny, but she, because she was a _young, southern lady_ , was expected to receive her education at the hands of a private Governess.

“This is a luxury,” her mother had hissed at Florence’s back when she was eleven, sobbing face down upon her pillows. “Do you have any idea how much I would have given to receive the education you are about too?”

“But you went to Ilvermorny!” Florence had shrieked.

“That is only because being from New York, it was expected of me. You are getting a highly specialized, highly sought after education.”

“Well you can keep it, I’ll take my acceptance letter,” Florence had spat back. Her mother had never hit her, but in that moment, there had been the chance that she would. Eudora Allman, somehow, had contained herself.

“This is not up for discussion.” And then she’d swept from the room and Florence had screamed so loud that the antique, Wedgewood vase that had been a wedding gift from her mother’s mother, had exploded.

But it had _not_ been a discussion. The Governess, while polite and soft spoken and perfectly intelligent in her own right, had seen too it that Florence was educated only in those subjects deemed necessary for a woman of stately, southern society. So what that Florence was fluent in all six of the core magical languages including Egyptian, or that she was better even than her second brother Owen in both Arithmancy and Ancient Runes? She had only been taught the most basic of Charms, and she had never even cracked a Transfiguration or Defense Against the Dark Arts book open. She’d never been allowed. She could recite almost verbatim (in multiple languages no less) the magical histories of both America and Europe, but it was only through years of begging and pleading with her father that he had given her any training in potions. Herbology was the one subject she had not been taught that she felt no gut wrenching anxiety over. She had been raised among the soil, growing like a magical plant herself. Florence would be surprised, if not downright ashamed if there was one student who could even close to match her in that subject.

“Let’s just say that my education until now has been much more theoretical than yours,” Florence murmurs as they scampered down the steps, lest they move again.

Philip is sitting alone at the Ravenclaw table close to the door when they arrive; almost immediately he spots them, waving them over and gesturing to the bench across from him.

“Good morning, lovelies,” he smiles, his freckle spotted cheeks crinkling as he looks from one girl to the other.

“Philip, _how_ can you be so cheerful in the morning,” Elizabeth groans, setting her bookbag down with a heavy _thud_ and tapping her wand against an empty, white coffee mug which fills immediately.

“It is no fault of mine that you are the most high maintenance, grumpy Ravenclaw to ever grace our year.”

“It’s called having good taste,” Elizabeth snaps, wrapping her fingers around her cup and sticking her face into the steam as if the aroma alone could cure her exhaustion. “And the mattresses at Hogwarts are _not_ in good taste.”

“Well, let me see your schedules.”

Both girls hand over their pieces of parchment before diving into the assorted breakfast before them. Elizabeth opts for a yogurt parfait while Florence eyes the rack of buttered toast and heaping jars of jam.

“Alas, I’ve got potions first, but I’ll see you both for the double herbology,” Philip chimes, handing them back their schedule. Florence tucks hers into her bag, and forces herself to take a bite of toast, hoping that a few carbs might help to settle her stomach before what was destined to be a disastrous first class.

“Alright over there, freshie?” Philip asks, perhaps noticing the sheen of sweat that had formed along her brow. Florence gave him a weak smile, her teeth firmly ensconced behind her lips.

“Bit nervous for class, that’s all,” she mutters, but Philip understands.

“Not like class in America, I’m assuming?”

“How about nothing. Never had a Charms lesson in my life,” she bullies herself into admitting, knowing that it will be better to out with the truth before she makes a fool of herself and word gets around that the first American student in a century doesn’t even know how to perform a simple summoning charm. Elizabeth and Philip’s mouths gape.

“ _What never?_ ”

“They don’t teach Charms in America?” Elizabeth questions, appalled. Florence forces herself not to roll her eyes, feeling an uncomfortable tightening in her chest that has nothing to do with her empty stomach.

“Of course they do,” she snaps, tapping her want on an empty coffee mug with strictly more force than necessary. “Ilvermorny is a top notch education, same as Hogwarts, _I_ just wasn’t afforded the opportunity to receive it.” Florence knows she’s hissing now, her eyes are so narrow she almost spills the cream she is trying to pour into her coffee.

“Then how on Earth did you get into seventh year? Dippet would never allow this.” Philip’s mouth is still hanging open, down to his chest.

“I had a private Governess. It’s very common in the South – a lot of families don’t like to send their children off to the Northeast, especially not their daughters.” The words feel strangled, slipping out between her teeth as if possessed. Philip lets out a low whistle, but at last, Florence notes with some relief, he has closed his mouth.

“I see, and I am assuming it isn’t deemed necessary to teach women in the arts of practical magical education.” This time it is Elizabeth who speaks. Florence shrugs, the acrid taste of her wounded pride still coating her tongue. It wasn’t Florence’s fault that she was woefully unprepared for Hogwarts – she shouldn’t even be at Hogwarts.

“Plenty of women, in fact most women, get the same education as men. But old Southern families just have different expectations for the daughters.”

“And you’re an old, Southern family, I presume?” Philip asks. Florence gave him a jerking nod.

“Then why are you at Hogwarts?” Elizabeth asks, her voice cooler than it has been all morning. “If your parents wouldn’t allow you to attend Ilvermorny, I hardly understand what would convince them to allow you travel halfway around the globe to complete your magical education, even if your father is here.” Florence takes a sip of her coffee, collecting her thoughts before answering. It’s a perfectly fair question, but in this moment, she hates Elizabeth for it.

“I’m set to debut into society in May,” Florence begins, her voice low. “It’s not that I’m against debuting, I mean the galas are really quite fun, but I’m not ready to get married off, not without at least seeing the world and learning something for myself. I threatened my parents that I wouldn’t participate in the ritual unless they let me go with dad to England this year and attend Hogwarts, and in the end, it was only one year and they are getting what they want, so they agreed.”

“I didn’t realize that the States had a strict debutante tradition,” Elizabeth murmurs, nodding her head as if some great puzzle had been answered.

“It’s not as prevalent nationwide as it once was, but in certain social circles, the Northeast, the South, parts of California, it’s a way of life. Is it common here?”

“They happen, but more often children are promised to each other from a young age, especially amongst the sacred twenty-eight families.”

“Although,” Philip interjects, his chin once more resting in his hand. “That’s been dying off a bit too, with everything that’s going on with Grindelwald. A lot of parents don’t want to promise their children to someone with the risk of that person getting killed, or their parents joining up with a dark wizard, or the fear that they _won’t_ join up.”

Florence felt her mind reel.

“Families sympathize with him?”

“Few do, aye?” Philip said with a shrug. “Got a lot of people, especially pure-bloods that think his message of magical supremacy is really something.”

Florence felt a pounding in her temple, and using all of her willpower, she managed to hold her tongue. Her father had warned her of the blood purity issue that still prevailed throughout Britain, that they would view magical and nomaj lives differently that she had been raised. _But to side with that madman?_ It was preposterous! Grindelwald had attacked the Magical Congress of the U.S.A. around the time Florence was born, but ever since then he had returned to mainland Europe and was amassing an army determined to establish wizard rule over nomajs across the continent. Grindelwald, in fact, was the reason Florence was at Hogwarts at all. The British Aurors were being repeatedly attacked by Grindelwald’s soldiers, and they needed their own supply of Dittany to keep their witches and wizards safe from both wounds and poison. But strictly speaking, Florence wasn’t supposed to know that, and so she kept her mouth sealed.

“We should probably get going, Florence. Charms is on the other side of the castle,” Elizabeth says, peering up at the clock on the far wall. Florence nods, the pit once more returning to her stomach before bidding Philip goodbye and following her friend once more.

The classroom is unremarkable, made of the same pale, tan stone as the rest of the castle. There is already a cluster of students Florence assumes to be Gryffindors from their red hoods seated at the back of the classroom, but only a few spare her a glance, perhaps confused by her unfamiliar face. They take a seat on the second row, and Florence stuffs her wand deep into her pocket where she won’t have to see the offensive tool.

If perhaps some god heard her silent prayer throughout breakfast, Florence does not know, but they are not asked to perform any spellwork that day. Professor Levisor is a willowy old man who’s bones clearly grew a few more inches than were necessary. His voice is raspy, but it carries across the room, and when he asks Florence to introduce herself the class, he smiles at her. He assigns them several chapters worth of reading and a full roll of parchment, and the lets them out of class early.

“Miss Allman, if you’d be every so kind to stay after class a moment, I’d like to speak with you. It will only be a moment,” Professor Levisor calls over the scraping of chairs and murmuring of students. Elizabeth gives her a small smile and whispers that she will wait in the hall and then the room is silent and the professor is waving Florence over to his desk where he has seated himself.

“Such a pleasure to meet you,” he says, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes softening the narrow lines of his face. “I cannot remember the last time we had an American student.” They shake hands, something Florence cannot honestly say she has done often, but she loves the thrill of greeting him like an equal.

“Thank you, Professor. I’m excited to be here. I’ve grown up on stories of Hogwarts.” And it is true. Her father received both a masters of Herbology and Potions at Hogwarts the summer after finishing his education at Ilvermorny, but masters were quite different from a general education. There was no point, however, in telling Levisor any of this.

“Headmaster Dippet has kindly informed me of the circumstances by which you came to be studying with us, and of your prior education,” he began, only the crinkles by his eyes which meant he was still smiling grounded Florence to the present, her heart thundering in her chest. “I think it would be most beneficial therefore to both you and your classmates if you receive private tutoring.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I would offer myself, but as the sole Charms professor here at Hogwarts, I will have neither the time nor the capacity. However, I have arranged with another seventh year student to oversee your extracurricular education. He is quite proficient at Charms, I can assure you. You will be in the best of hands.” If Florence had not been able to feel the stretch of her cheeks which meant she was smiling, she would have worried she was frowning. The acrid taste of her practically flaming pride danced across her tongue. _Another student?_ The last the she needed was some other seventh year discovering she was woefully incompetent and running off to inform the rest of the school that Americans were unfit to bear wands.

“That would wonderful, Sir,” she manages to say, keeping her smile plastered across her face. Levisor’s own grin widens in return.

“Splendid. I’ve gone to the liberty of checking both of your schedules to establish a meeting time. You will be receiving your first lesson this Thursday at seven o’clock. I’ve informed him that you are welcome to use this room for your instruction.”

“Thank you,” Florence repeats, nodding her head at him. “If you don’t mind me asking, who is going to be teaching me?”

“Oh foolish of me, forgot to tell you. His name is Tom Riddle.”

“Great, well, if that’s all professor?”

“Yes, yes that’s all. I’ll see you soon I’m sure, dear. And again,” he added, his smile returning once more. “Welcome to Hogwarts.”

Outside the classroom Elizabeth is leaning against the wall, staring in a bored fashion out the window. The moment Florence came into sight, however, her blonde head snapped to attention as she fell into step beside Florence and the pair made their way down to the entrance hall and out onto the grounds towards the greenhouses.

“What did Levisor want?” Elizabeth asks, switching her bag from one shoulder to the other so that it no longer bumps into Florence as they walk. Outside in the natural light of day, Florence notices for the first time just how pretty Elizabeth is since meeting her the night before. Her blonde hair glows golden under the sunlight, high cheekbones cutting her round face. Elizabeth’s eyes are blue, light like the color of a cloudless sky at the peak of summer, and her lips are fully and rosy. If she wasn’t Florence’s only friend thus far, she might have felt more envious, but as it were, she was to stressed to consider it at the moment.

“I’m to receive private tutoring in Charms from another student. Some seventh year named Riddle?” Florence feels some tension leave her shoulders moments after they’ve left the stone steps behind and start moving across the grass, the soil beneath her feet bringing a modicum of familiarity Florence had not realized she’d needed until that moment. She was so caught up in enjoying the outdoors that she missed the flash of emotion in Elizabeth’s well ruled face. But it was gone in a moment.

“I assumed it was something to that point. And Riddle is best in our year, he’ll be a good tutor.”

“Except that I don’t _want_ a tutor,” Florence says, her head rolling back so that her face can soak up the sun’s rays. “I came here so I didn’t have to have one-on-one education. Not have some boy try and teach me vanishing charms and then go prattle off to the rest of the students about how Americans speak piglatin or some other nonsense like that.” Beside her Elizabeth smiles, her eyes trained on the horizon where mountains seem to be reaching for the sky.

“Riddle is fair. He won’t go spreading rumors about you.”

They’ve reached the Greenhouse before Florence can respond, and with a great sigh of relief, she takes the lead for the first time and flings open the glass door, flecks of dried green paint peeling off of the door handle and sticking to her skin.

Inside is like a hug from an old friend – one she had not realized she was missing until she was back in their embrace. It smells like her father, like the greenhouses he had kept out back behind their estate, perhaps lacking some of his organization. Everywhere she looks there are vines, leaves, flowers that seem to open and close at will. The air is thick and moist and she can _taste_ the minerals on the tip of her tongue.

“Alright plantation girl, try not to look so happy,” Elizabeth chides, scooting past her and leading her to an empty spot in the middle of the table. Florence only smiles and follows after, too pleased to be on stable ground to be offended.

Their professor is a short, curly haired witch with a large chin and pleasant brown eyes. She introduces herself as Professor Yarrow, and her voice is nasally but bearable. Only a few students have arrived thus far, but quickly they are joined by Philip, who stands beside Elizabeth after giving Florence’s shoulders a quick squeeze.

“Alright firstie?”

“Never better.”

Florence is listening to Philip discuss the tragedy that was his potions lesson – he had accidentally added his Mugwort before the mint leaves, not vice versa, and melted his favorite stirring spoon as a result – and therefore missed _his_ entrance into the greenhouse. But when she glances around the greenhouse a second time to peruse the pots for familiar plants, she is stunned to see him standing just across the table from her, flanked by the hulking blonde Philip had named Avery, his impossibly black eyes fixed upon her.

It’s comically unfair, is all Florence can think, that any human being can look like him. He is staring at her and all she can think of is Ancient myths she’d been forced to read in order to familiarize herself with Linear B Greek – of Adonis and Hyacinthus and Psyche – of mortals so beautiful they had been doomed to die and recast as constellations among the heavens. His jaw is square and strong enough to shatter ice, his gaze like being dunked under cold water… _repeatedly_. She’s never seen skin as fair as his, certainly not in the South where everyone was kissed by the sun in some way, nor hair that is the closest shade to black while still managing to be brown. Florence does not think she knows how to breathe, she does not even think she can think at all.

Without so much as a quirk of his lip to acknowledge her, his eyes, like onyx, return to the front of the room. _Who is he?_ She wants to introduce herself, to stick her hand out across the table and force him to shake it because _never_ in her life has someone given her such a blank look – not in Georgia, not in Somerset, and certainly not here at Hogwarts where just being American is an oddity in itself. Because in profile his face is sharp as glass. Because, though only a man, he is nothing like any boy she’d grown up with, a far cry even from the few English boys she’d come to know.

Sound returns to her slowly as if she’s been buried deep underground, enough for her to realize that her Professor is speaking and she is missing the instructions to her first Herbology lesson – the one class she is supposed to be good at. With a shake of her head, she manages to divest the last of her sudden onset haze and focus upon Yarrow’s words.

“We will, of course, be dealing with exceptionally dangerous plants this semester, so I expect each of you to come prepared to class and to pay the utmost attention to detail. This will be a matter of life or death, I can assure you,” Yarrow claims, and Florence nods. Her father had said much the same thing the first time he’d allowed her into his private greenhouse. _Plants may look pretty, Florie, but they’ll kill you as quick as a man will, and they won’t feel bad about it_.

Yarrow instructs them to partner up, directing them through the steps to prune the bitterroot plants that are potted before them. They are short an wide with broad magenta blooms that seem to cover most of the surface area of the plants. Florence smiles – she has been doing this since she was six.

“Bitterroot is not poisonous, but it will leave a large rash if you come into contact with the pollen, so I would suggest your dragonhide gloves. Please dispose of any decaying leaves or plants in the bowls before you. It is vitally important you only remove decaying matter – bitterroot is very temperamental, and removing one healthy leaf or bud could cause the plant to die.”

Yarrow allows them to partner off after that. Philip politely allows Elizabeth and Florence to work together, instead walking around the table and joining Avery to tackle their own bitterroot. The enigmatic boy before her has begun working with the girl to his left, a few strands of his perfectly groomed hair falling across his forehead, but not enough to hide the fact that he is again, blatantly staring at her. Something in her gut clenches.

“Lead the way, farmer,” Elizabeth goads, and Florence can’t help but smile. Because this is something she can do, and this might be the last class she feels this way. Because she’s good at this, and Florence _loves_ being good at things. Slipping on her gloves, her fingers move with expect confidence, spotting leaves with decay that will not recover, separating them from the main body of the plant before the rot can spread. Within half an hour her plant has been stripped of any harmful material, perfectly pruned, and Professor Yarrow is inspecting their work with a bright smile. She sends them on their way a moment later with ten points to Ravenclaw for a “keen eye and decisive confidence.”

As Elizabeth and Florence make their way back up the castle, Elizabeth teasing Florence for her showmanship, Florence can’t help but think that if her year passes as today has gone, that life at Hogwarts is going to be _wonderful_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! No Tom in this chapter, but I promise the next is at last from his POV:) Thank you to all my supporters so far - if you're new (or old), I'd love to hear from you of what you think so far. Everyone stay safe out there!

Chapter 3

“You can’t ever reach perfection, but you can believe in an asymptote toward which you are ceaselessly striving.”  
― Paul Kalanithi, When Breath Becomes Air

Florence should have known she’d spoken too soon.

No sooner had Wednesday morning dawned bright and early with dew still clinging to the windowpanes and frost to the grounds below than had Florence examined her schedule to see both Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts looming on her horizon. Groaning, she fell back onto her bed, holding out her schedule for Elizabeth to see in response to her questioning look.

“I can’t wait to see you in Transfiguration,” Elizabeth chuckles, rolling onto her side and silencing her alarm, a small golden egg she has charmed to hatch at the proper time and to peep until resealed, with a prod of her wand. It’s a clever bit of magic, and it makes Florence green with envy.

“You’re going to have to get over that ego of yours, Florence dear,” Elizabeth continues, buttoning her skirt at her waist and slipping on her robes. She cannot help the maniacal grin that spreads across her face, or that is what Florence tells herself so that she doesn’t hit her.

“As if you don’t have an ego.”

“I happen to be one of the smartest students in our class, and I come from one of the premiere British wizarding families. I think I’d say I’d warranted it.”

Florence wants to snap back that her family is probably wealthier than half the families of Hogwarts combined, that her family is just as prestigious – both in America _and_ in Britain – but she bites her tongue. She can hear her mother now. _Pride is unbecoming of a young lady, you must not walk around with your nose so far in the air if you expect anyone to care to get to know you._ Like many of the things her mother taught her, it was sound advice. And yet, at this moment she wants to take those words, crumple them upon a spare bit of parchment, and flush them down the toilet.

Whatever luck had spared her from waving her wand around like a blind person in Charms the day before did not carry over into today. Upon arriving into class after a fretfully spent free period where she had to avoid meeting Elizabeth’s eye or else risk having her friend laugh at her expense, Florence selected a desk against the wall and attempted to melt into the wood paneling. Professor Dumbledore, with his deep purple robes and twinkling eye, seemed to recognize that she would rather disappear, and with a broad smile, asked her to introduce herself to the class.

“Florence Allman, sir,” she murmurs, her voice caught in her throat and that acrid taste that she despises returning to her mouth. She can feel her cheeks burning.

“Lovely, and Headmaster Dippet informs me you are from America. Please do indulge me by telling me from where specifically?” Florence, had she taken a deep breath to compose herself, might have been pleased if she’d realized he was the first person within Hogwarts to ask anything about where she was from specifically within the United States, but unable to focus on anything besides her inability to breathe, replies stiffly.

“I’m from Georgia, Professor.”

“Ah, what a beautiful place. I haven’t been for such a long time, but I remember such magnificent peach orchards. Wonderful for fruit crumbles.” Yet again Florence might have been impressed if not for this sunny-eyed professor’s determination to mortify her.

When she at last takes her seat, Elizabeth is shaking her head and laughing quietly to herself.

“He only asked where you were from – try not to give your teacher a look like you’d love to kill him during your first lesson.”

But by the end of her lesson, Florence thinks she might actually want to kill the cheerfully bearded man who is sweeping about the room. He’d asked them to transfigure their textbooks into a _bird._ To turn an inanimate object into a living, breathing, _thinking_ creature. It was preposterous – and what was more, he had offered ten house points to whichever student could produce the bird with the most extravagant tailfeathers. To Florence’s chagrin, Elizabeth managed it towards the end of class, even if it was only a black and white songbird.

She tries and tries and tries again, pointing her want at her textbook and muttering the word under her breath, but she feels nothing, no stirring in her magic, not even a tingle at the base of her spine to hint that at least her voice was working. Her great grandmother had sang magic into existence, had taught her the rain dance of the Cherokee and the way to summon life from the land itself with song and tenderness and hands. It was feeling and it was naming and it was imprecise and dirty, and it feels as far from wandwork and incantations as humanly possible. Florence does not know how to transfer this knowledge into what she is doing now. This lesson feels too rigid, too structured and her wand so pointless when she could just call upon the spirit of the sun and beg for a bird instead of a book.

“Dashing, Miss Greengrass. Take five points for Ravenclaw,” Dumbledore praises her friend warmly, tapping the bird’s head with his wand and returning the creature to its textbook form. “For your homework I’d like twelve inches on creating sentience, please. To be turned in at the beginning of class Monday. Have a lovely day – and Miss Allman, stay behind for a moment if you would.” Elizabeth flashes another of her signature, maniacal grins before disappearing out the door.

“I have spoken to Headmaster Dippet about your circumstances,” he says, suddenly businesslike but his voice no less warm when the classroom has emptied. “It is most unfortunate that you have been denied the ability to study the art that is Transfiguration, and while we will not be able to correct for the opportunities you have lost over the years, we can attempt to fix some of the damages.” Florence felt her mouth open and close. Finally she nods, her throat tight.

“Professor Levisor informs me that you will be receiving tutoring from a fellow student in Charms, is that so?”

“Yes sir, another seventh year named Riddle is supposed to teach me.” He smiles again, but after years of watching her mother, Florence knows this one is less easy than those that came before. She cannot fathom why.

“I believe that will be our best course of option for this class as well. I am happy to assign someone to you if you prefer, but I thought that I might offer my services myself. Learning from one’s peers can be humbling at the best of times, downright bothersome at the worst. With me, I do believe I will be able to expedite your learning process in a more tailored fashion,” Dumbledore offers, his voice crisp and warm, cinnamon and peppercorn. Florence’s head is nodding before she even registers, and Professor Dumbledore chuckles.

“I thought,” he says, the twinkle in his eyes even more pronounced, “you may find that preferable. I suggest we meet after our Transfiguration class on Mondays at five o’clock, would that be suitable?”

“Yes, thank you, Professor,” Florence says, giving him a sort of half bow. There is something magnetic in his presence, a hum in the air that is like being enveloped in a knitted blanket.

“Excellent. I will not monopolize any more of your time, I understand that your friend Miss Greengrass is waiting outside the door for you.”

Florence smiles then, because it’s the only good thing that’s happened to her today and because Professor Dumbledore, for all his insistence on making her try and fail repeatedly in class, does seem to understand her situation. Understand, but not pity. It is like stepping into a cool stream of water in the middle of Summer the relief is so overwhelming.

“Oh, and Miss Allman,” Dumbledore calls after her when she has nearly reached the door. Turning over her shoulder, she sees that he has laced his fingers together before him, elbows resting on his desk. “I am thrilled you will be joining us at Hogwarts this year. I always enjoy learning about new perspectives.”

Defense Against the Dark Arts, if possible, is worse. Professor Merrythought has her introduce herself to the entire class once more, and then, as if out of a nightmare, informs her that this Tom Riddle, whose name is now beginning to sound like a curse to Florence, will also be tutoring her in Defense alongside Charms. She hasn’t even had the chance to pick up her wand before the entire class thinks she is incapable of using it in the first place.

By the time the class is over and Elizabeth reunited with her and Philip after Defense, Florence is fuming and rubbing her arm absent mindedly, recalling the poorly cast stinging hex the idiot Gryffindor boy had shot her way.

“Our little first year is having a bad day,” Philip confers to Elizabeth as they make their way down to the Great Hall for lunch.

“Don’t you have anything better to do, Philip,” she spits, whirling around to glare at him. His eyebrows shoot up his forehead, making his freckles more prominent, and if possible, his face seem more kind than before. Florence immediately regrets her outburst. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, don’t sweat it,” he says, throwing an arm around her shoulder.

“I have no idea how to use magic here,” she tells them as they sit down to eat.

“Florence, we understand that your upbringing was just so _vastly_ different from ours, but could you please clarify?” Elizabeth says, clearly fighting to roll her eyes. For all her warmth towards Florence, she suspects Elizabeth can be very cold to those not deemed worthy of the effort.

“Well since everyone else in my family attended Ilvermorny, they use their wands just the same as you do, as the conduit for their magic. My Governess taught me the basics, how to summon my magic for small things, how to control it for little charms and spells, but nothing like what we attempted in Transfiguration today,” she explains, taping her goblet and thinking of the river that runs through her land back home in Georgia.

“But I learned other magic too. Magic of the land, of the name. My great grandmother taught it too me, the dances and the songs and the spirit of the Cherokee people – her people and my people through her. It is so much less _precise_ than what you do here, there is nothing too it but to _feel_. My father knows this magic too, but my brothers learned your important European nonsense and they struggled to understand what my grandmother could teach them, but I wasn’t being taught how to use my wand, so I think it came easier to me,” Florence says, noticing the crease between Philip’s eyes.

“There are other kinds of magic?”

“Of course there are, Philip,” Elizabeth says, finally allowing her eyes to roll. “Think about house elves or goblins – their magic is different from ours. It’s accessed differently, it’s used differently. The laws of their magic do not obey the laws of ours.”

“Thank god for you Lizzie or I’m sure Philip would think I’m insane and I’d have no friends in this school,” Florence sighs, biting into her apple. Elizabeth smiles.

“Well, I still do think you’re crazy and that everything you just said is gibberish, but I’m willing to overlook it in order to have another seventh year Ravenclaw who doesn’t make me want to rip out my hair,” she says, sipping idly from her tea. “Also, my sister calls me Lizzie.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister?” Florence says.

“Well of course you didn’t, you’ve known me three days,” Elizabeth retorts, but her summer blue eyes are not angry. “Her name is Lottie – she’s only ten.”

“Do you have siblings, Philip?”

She wonders if it was the wrong thing to say, because for the first time, Philips face darkens.

“Two, both older. Herbert is nearly 30, and my sister Iona is twenty-four – no, twenty-five. Both in Slytherin.”

“Your parents really spread y’all out, neither of you is very close in age to your siblings, are you?” Florence wonders if she’s misspoken again, glancing at them. They are both staring at each other, communicating silently in the way that Florence once had with her brothers.

“Florence, you should just know this so you don’t mention it on accident again. It’s a bit of a sore subject these days,” Elizabeth begins, turning to face her, her voice calm and eyes cool. “Many of the pure-blood families are having _trouble_ having children in this day and age.”

And something in the way she has said it tells Florence it has nothing to do with lack of drive or poor timing. The pure-blood families of Great Britain are facing a much greater threat, and it’s one that they can’t speak about openly.

“Okay,” she agrees. “Thank you for telling me, Lizzie.” The blonde girl nods and returns to her bowl of tomato bisque.

“Should we work on our transfiguration essay this afternoon? That reading Dumbledore assigned us is going to take ages,” Philip suggests, pushing away his empty plate and reaching for his water glass.

“An excellent plan, Philip,” Elizabeth agrees, and soon they find themselves headed towards the library, arguing quietly about which class will be harder this year – Transfiguration, or Potions.

Expansive is the only word Florence can think of when at last they arrive. The walls on either side of her are invisible behind the rows of shelves. In fact, the only other time she’s seen this many rows of the same thing is in their fields of Dittany, and somehow the thought makes her emotional standing before the vault of knowledge.

Holding her breath, she follows after her peers as they make towards the back left corner into a large open space with several tables. Philip snags the last free one, and they set to work, each pulling out their Transfiguration textbooks and resigning themselves to a dull hour of reading. But within only a few pages, Florence’s leg begins to bounce under the table. There is so much to explore here, so much knowledge she’s never had access to in her life until this very moment. Determined to at least see the library, if nothing else, Florence silently closes her book and begins to meander through the shelves, reading the section titles with some curiosity. _Sixteenth Century Medi-lore. Ancient Fables of the Norse. Modern Transfiguration Theory: 1845 to Present._ She’s looking without intention when she stumbles upon it, grinding to a halt.

_Magics of the Native Peoples of America._

Perhaps it’s because she’s tired, or because she has quite literally never gone this long without being beside some member of her family, even if it is only three days, but Florence’s eyes fill with tears. Immediately she blinks them away, flushing with embarrassment, but it does not stop her from pressing her palms to the spines of the books, running her fingers across the two meager shelves of study in this seemingly endless tomb. She can _feel_ the magic in them, familiar, like the burn of energy she gets when she is singing to the fields for strength and good harvest. Closing her eyes, she leans her forehead against their spines, content only to be connected to this part of herself.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Florence peels herself away from the books and returns to her seat, feeling more rejuvenated than she has any right to be. _They’re only books_ she chastises herself, but they are not only books and she knows it. They are something which validates her magical experience, however small.

The Transfiguration reading, for as kind as Professor Dumbledore seems to be, is as dull and obtuse as Philip warned. It takes her over an hour just to get through the reading, and then another half of the next to synthesize her thoughts. Transfiguration at the lowest level was complex, in order to turn one thing into another you must understand both the beginning and end products. How she was supposed to understand the purpose of a _bird_ was mind boggling, and it was starting to make her temples pound.

“Oi, don’t blow out your brain cells over there,” Philip hums, glancing up from his parchment to where Florence was glaring at her blank piece of paper as if she could catch it on fire if given enough time. She sighs.

“I just don’t understand the reading.”

“Some Ravenclaw you are.”

“It’s not my fault my parents decided to provide me with in incomplete magical education,” Florence whines under her breath, knowing that neither Philip nor Elizabeth really want to hear her excuses. Elizabeth is already nearly halfway done with her twelve inches.

“Just put something on paper. Professor Dumbledore already knows your behind, and it’s not like you’re taking your N.E.W.T.s anyways,” Philip suggests, returning to his own writing, his quill scratching across the parchment with a gentle rustle. There is some sense to this advice. After all, Dumbledore had informed her only earlier that day that he welcomed new perspectives. _Well I hope he’s ready for this perspective_ she muses, pulling out her quill and ink and settling down to write the most sporadic thoughts put to paper.

It is two hours later that she finishes. Both Philip and Elizabeth have returned to the common room, and with some trepidation she rolls up her scroll once the ink has dried and sets out to find the Ravenclaw Tower. Having grown up on a large portion of land, Florence has always prided herself on her innate sense of direction, but there is nothing warm and inviting about Hogwarts hallways at night, no wind through the trees to speak to her, only the occasional popping of the torches in their brackets breaking the monotony of her footsteps.

It has only been three days since she has seen her father, but it feels like a century, perhaps two if she closes her eyes. It was just different than this, schooling at home. The wizarding community of the Southeastern U.S. didn’t have traditional _neighborhoods_ like they might in villages here or towns across the northern states. They were separated by land, so while Florence had possessed a wide range of young friends from other well-to-do Southern wizarding aristocrats, there was no popping over to the neighbors or casual community gatherings. Of course one could just floo over to their house, but to do so unannounced was the height of impropriety, and incredibly rude. It meant that every time she was around other children her age, it was a formal event in the wizarding down of Spectre. That they were dressed in their calf-leather opera gloves that stretched over their elbows and their hair was pinned and their bodies squeezed into their airy cotton, voile gowns.

But around her family, at least during the day or out in the field or while riding horses, life was more relaxed than during gatherings with other members of their society. Albion and Owen, twenty-five and twenty years of age respectively, had taken her on adventures and helped her climb her first tree and thrown her into the river and shown her how to ride English, Western, and even side-saddle. And when they’d left her for school, there had always been her mom and dad, and for a time her great grandmother. Her family had always been with her, the constant that was like the phases of the moon or the path of the stars, always in motion but predictable and stable. Her family meant everything to her.

Yet somehow she is here, wandering the halls of Hogwarts alone, thinking about the ocean between them. She wonders if Albion and Owen think of her too, or her mother, or even her Governess who returned to Virginia now that her time with the Allmans was done.

For a moment Florence stops walking, overwhelmed with the choices she’s made and how far they’ve taken her, but then she recalls that Elizabeth and Philip are waiting for her in the common room and that she’s going to be learning magic she’s never been deemed worthy of before, and despite the ache that has seeped down to her very bones for her family, she cannot regret her decisions. In less than a year she will be packaged off for marriage, and there was no point in wishing away this year with homesickness. It might be the last chance she had to be herself – to truly live.

It turns out the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room is in the next corridor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last! Tom's POV! I have worked on this chapter so many different times, but I don't know if I'll ever truly be happy with it. Thank you as always to everyone who is reading, leaving Kudos, bookmarking, and commenting. I am every so grateful and would love to hear from all of you.

Chapter 4

"It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities."

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

He’s been watching her. Not because she is anything remarkable, because she isn’t, but because she is at least something new. And after seven years in this school, new is the closest Tom Riddle can get to interesting. Or at least it is now that he can no longer open the Chamber.

She’s fallen in with the Greengrass girl and Burke boy as if she’s known them her entire life. He wants to sneer at her, because he knows she doesn’t even understand how unique she is in that regard. _Florence Allman_ he thinks her name with a twist in his gut, has no idea that Elizabeth Greengrass and Philip Burke have systematically rejected the olive branches of friendship extended to them by various members of their house throughout the years because they are the two Ravenclaws who should have been Slytherins – because they are pure-bloods and sacred twenty-eight and they would never lower themselves for common Ravenclaws, let alone Gryffindor or Hufflepuff.

But they have accepted her, and it infuriates him because there is nothing remarkable about her. Of course he _knows_ about her. Abraxas Malfoy had seen fit to inform him of her transfer when he caught wind of her father’s connections to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement over the summer. Her father is a _farmer_ , a rich one – so be it – but still a farmer. And what is worse, those two Ravenclaw gits seemed to know this about her, and had accept her anyway! He suspected that word had gone around all of the pure-blooded families of Britain, that they had each been made aware that the transfer student from America would be someone of note. That is, depending upon ones definition of _noteworthy_.

He was a descendant of Slytherin himself and he’d been forced to scare the will to live out of his fellow seventh years before they saw fit to treat him as an equal. But of course now, they didn’t treat him as an equal, they treated him as their superior. Because he was. In every sense of the word. In name, in intelligence, in _power_.

Yet he could not help but notice the way she held herself – back slightly too straight, jaw proud and held high, the thoughtless toss of caramel waved hair over her shoulder. No, she was not sacred twenty-eight, but she was still like them. Old and proud and wealthy and had probably never been told no her entire life. No, there was _nothing_ remarkable about her except that she was American, and that was more of an oddity than anything else. He’d asked Abraxas, who was working in the Department of International Magical Cooperation since he’d graduated two years ago, to look into what the Allman girl’s father was doing with the DMLE. He wanted to know – needed too.

He had watched her in Herbology too, more closely than he cared to admit if he was to be honest with himself, but she was going to be gone in a year and there was no need to win her over into liking him the way there was for members of magical Britain. She would finish this year and disappear back to Georgia and that would be the last anyone thought of Florence Allman except to say _remember that time_ at weddings and galas. He would be cordial because he always was, but he was tired of oozing charm day in and day out for people, and she simply did not seem worth it.

Tom had watched her in Herbology to see if she really was a farmer’s daughter, and she’d been smiling so brightly at the greenery around her it had made him want to smear the stupid Bitterroot pollen all across her face. Of course, she’d caught him staring. Her simple brown eyes widening in surprise, manicured brows peeling up her face as he gave her his blankest look, dusty pink lips parting slightly as the moments stretched on. He wished he could have seen her reaction when he’d looked away, but he’d been pretending to focus on Professor Yarrow and therefore missed it.

Grudgingly he’d been forced to admit she was decent at Herbology, but being decent at Herbology was like being decent at walking or reading. Anyone could do it. Her eyes had positively crackled with pleasure when Professor Yarrow complemented her Bitterroot. _Pathetic._

And then he had seen her quite on accident yesterday in the Library. He’d been returning a book of supplemental reading he’d been doing for Dumbledore’s hopelessly dull essay when out of the corner of his eye he’d seen a narrow figure pressed against one of the bookshelves… _as if in prayer_. Nonverbally returning his book to the proper shelf so as not to disturb other person in this little visited corner of the library, he crept closer until at last he recognized the caramel waves of Florence Allman, soft and merging in fawn pools upon her shoulders. She didn’t seem to be breathing, in fact she could have been dead she was standing so still, but after several minutes the girl at last peeled herself away and made her way back to her table. Stepping up to the shelf she’d been practically making love too, Tom had searched for the section title until at last he’d found it written in thin-loopy handwriting.

_Magics of the Native Peoples of America._

Tom shook his head. What a senseless waste of time that distraction had been.

And now, here he is, sitting and waiting for another senseless waste of time. Or at least his time – because rumor was Florence Allman, unremarkable Florence Allman, was no better than a first year when it came to spellcasting. It sent savage delight coursing through him just to consider it. Of course, it made him considerably less delighted when he recalled that her incompetence had saddled him with this tutoring gig, in not only one but _two_ subjects. She must be truly dreadful.

Tom runs his fingers down his wand, its black surface gleaming under the torchlight. He has made a lesson plan for tonight, because if nothing else he hates seeming unprepared. It is ten minutes until seven when the door opens and Florence Allman enters, closing the door behind her with a definitively final _clang_. Her eyes are wider than he has ever seen them when she spots him leaning against Levisor’s desk – he should have known she wouldn’t have bothered to find out who he was. Such a typical pure-blood thing to do – to think no one is worth seeking out until proven otherwise. One day, everyone will know him.

“Hi,” she says, her American voice tempered by her gentle and slow Southern roots. Walking at an unhurried pace between two columns of desks, she reaches the first row and sinks herself into one of them, depositing her bag on the floor. He can see that her cheeks are flushed and her jaw clenched tight, but she’s meeting his gaze because she’s a foolish, wealthy aristocrat who doesn’t know who she is dealing with.

“Good evening,” he says, his eyes trained upon hers, attempting to determine if her irises were more a shade of mocha or simple black coffee. He could not tell from this distance.

Getting to his feet, he began to stroll towards her, the clacking of his loafers the only sound within the room. Florence crosses her leg at the ankle, the flash of skin he can see beneath her skirt reveals that her legs are just as bronzed as her face and arms. _Dirt baby_ he wants to call her, imagining her running across the American mud like a heathen. Up close he discovers her eyes are a deep umber, her caramel hair littered with golden and white streaks from days in the sun, her mouth, a narrow line of dusty rose, the only thing to disrupt the various shades of brown she was composed of.

“Thanks for agreeing to work with me, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of other things you’d rather do,” Florence says, her eyes flickering between his and a distant point over her shoulder, her smile too tight to be comfortable. _She’s embarrassed_ he realizes, and it is this, not her thanks, that makes him smile. Still, she’d thanked him. Something Elizabeth Greengrass or any of the other pure-blooded girls certainly would never have done.

“It’s my pleasure,” he tells her, because in one fashion it is. Because Tom cannot wait to see if unremarkable Florence Allman is as bad as the gossips say.

“I didn’t know you were Head Boy too,” she comments, nodding her head towards the gold badge on his chest. “Really something aren’t you? Levisor and Merrythought both assured me I was in the _best_ hands under your tutelage.” Tom can’t decide if he thinks she is trying to compliment him, move the conversation onto comfortable ground, or if she’s just as angry as he is to find herself in the Charms classroom at this hour on a weekday. There is an edge to her voice that he cannot name, like she is tearing at him with a carving knife to see if he will peel, and it makes his sight flicker red.

“Levisor and Merrythought were kind to think me up to the task,” he murmurs at last, narrowing his eyes slightly. He has no idea how to read her forward nature. It makes him want to whip out his wand and blow something up just to melt the confident look she’s giving him.

“Polite, aren’t you?” She says, blunt as an axe, but she’s smiling now, the flush that was in her cheeks receding until she is once again bronzed. _Are all Americans this direct_ he wonders. “My mom sent me to cotillion two summers in a row trying to get my mouth under control, but I’m not sure how much good it did.”

“You are from the States?” He asks, feigning indifference. He already knows this answer and so much more about her, but no need to outwardly frighten her. At least not yet.

“Yeah, Georgia actually. Although I guess you wouldn’t know where Georgia is? You’d have no reason too, I mean…It’s in the South…” she trails off, suddenly uncrossing and re-crossing her legs, lacing her fingers together in her lap. “Have you been to America?”

“I haven’t had the honor yet.”

“The honor,” she snorts, her smile widening until he thinks it might be taking up half of her face, large, brown eyes crinkling in the corner.

It is odd, he considers, that she is so comfortable around him. He is accustomed to cool deference from the Slytherins or silent awe from the other students of Hogwarts. Head Boy, smartest in the school, and the savior of the castle – this easy banter is neither common nor familiar to him.

“Every person I have met since I got here has been absolutely horrified that I am from America. I can’t decide if it’s a revolution hangover or they just hate my accent.”

“Revolution?” Tom asks, because he has no idea what she’s talking about, and it incenses him at first thought that there might be something that this unexceptional girl knows that he does not. He _hates_ not knowing something – it’s why the strict social structure of the sacred twenty-eight had infuriated him so upon his arrival at Hogwarts. You could look up every form of magic under the sun. Study it, master it. But there are no books telling you how to obtain a house elf or which families are welcome to marry which or whether you should learn French instead of German. Behind her desk, Florence’s jaw is hanging open, and then to his utmost horror, she laughs. _At him._ His fingers long for his wand, his magic thrashing inside him begging for release.

“The American Revolution? Don’t you learn about it?”

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand,” Tom nearly spits through his teeth. Florence’s smile falters and then drops completely.

“No, I guess you wouldn’t,” she murmurs, and Tom can feel the surprise in her words, and the hint of disappointment. She is staring at her hands ensconced in her lap, her voice once more as tense as it was when she entered the room. “It happened hundreds of years ago between the Nomaj’s. I guess y’all wouldn’t have any reason to study the American Revolution now that I think about it.”

“They teach you Muggle history in America?”

“Well, my Governess did. But now that I think about it, I don’t know if my brothers learned about it at Ilvermorny.”

“You didn’t attend Ilvermonry?” He asks, floored, because he had no idea that home schooling existed in the States. That she’d never even _been_ to a school. Thirty questions pop into his mind, and without thinking he seats himself on the edge of her desk, leaning forward to hear her response. Florence seems unphased by his proximity, despite it’s impropriety.

“No, my parents insistedthat all respectable, Southern ladies received their education at the hands of a Governess,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You can’t even begin to imagine how mad I was when Tallulah Blount sent me an eagle to say that that _her_ parents were letting her go to Ilvermorny.”

“I can’t fathom,” he says with a smirk, the storm in her chestnut eyes clearly says that she had several things to say about the inequality. He has no idea why she is telling him these things, but she is new and suddenly he is desperate for further information because at least if he has to be around her, she’s not boring. “But your brothers were allowed to attend?”

“Yes, Albion and Owen both went. That’s why I’m such trash at practical magic, my _sweet, sweet_ Governess didn’t seem to think it was a necessary thing to teach a young woman. Idiotic really.”

“And what did she deem necessary to teach you?” Tom asks her, because he is genuinely curious despite his every intention to despise this unremarkable girl before him. It makes him feel unjustly smug that this rich, privileged girl had not been given access to the same quality education as him, despite her having every advantage over Tom’s pathetic, muggle upbringing.

“Oh you, know,” she says, leaning back in her chair and tossing her hair over her shoulder seemingly without thinking. “Arithmancy, Histories of Magic, both American and European, Ancient Runes, Potions, all the languages – and I mean _all_ of them. Linear B, Norse, French, Egyptian, Russian, _and_ old English. I mean honestly, who needs old English these days?”

Tom tries not to let his surprise show as she rattles off the languages she is fluent in. Hogwarts doesn’t teach the languages – only the pure-blood families could afford summer tutors to teach their children French. But even they couldn’t speak _seven_ languages. Clearly she was smart, just a product of a system which had denied her an equal opportunity. Another surge of magic flows through him as he grapples with the _unfairness_ of it all. In another life, he’d speak as many languages, maybe more, as unremarkable Florence Allman.

“But no application studies? Charms? Transfiguration?” He needs to know how much ground they are going to need to cover with her. With a wave of annoyance, he realizes it is going to be a lot.

“Well, a bit of Charms, but nothing in Defense or Transfiguration. My great-grandmother gave me a lot of practical lessons, but my Governess _hated_ them.”

“Great-grandmother?” He prods, because every time she opens her mouth her next sentence is more surprising than the last. Her eyes lift at last from the grain of wood she’s been glaring at to meet his, and he stunned by the size of her smile, the depth of her gaze.

“She was amazing. Her magic was nothing like the uptight nonsense you have here,” she says, resting an elbow on her desk and leaning her cheek upon it, unblinkingly staring up at him. Tom feels himself flush under her stare and he decides upon her words he hates her more than any person he’s ever met. _Nonsense?_ He was more powerful than any wizard in Hogwarts barring perhaps Dumbledore, and she had the nerve to call his magic nonsense? Tom’s vision shone red. His magic was unparalleled – _Florence Allman_ was soon going to discover that.

“Is that so?” He purrs, and he can see that her cheeks have flushed again, realizing too late that her words had offended him. “Can you elaborate on what it is exactly that she taught you?

“Well, it’s not wand based,” Florence mutters, her cheeks so red that he wonders if her skin is burning. “She was Cherokee, so you know, naming magic and land magic…”

She squirms under his gaze. He loves it because finally, _finally_ she’s behaving around him how any sane person should – meek.

“Land magic…” Tom hums, admiring the flush of her skin as he allowed his ever present temper to cool. He wants to ask her to show him her bastard magic – to lift rocks or sow seed or whatever it is she does with her great-grandmother’s shit casting, but he decides to save that for another time. First he needs to test her abilities. He lets the pair sit in silence for a moment longer before it looks like Florence might explode from discomfort before speaking.

“I thought we’d start with Charms. Perhaps you could show me what it is your Governess taught you? A levitation charm, maybe?”

Florence’s face has turned ashen but she nods, getting to her feet. She slips past him, and when she stands, he realizes she is tall, at least for a girl. _Probably a result of her American genes._

She’s not terrible, much to his dismay, just woefully behind. Her levitation and hovering charms are textbook, but past that her spellcasting is shaky at best. When they reach summoning charms, she fails completely. Tom can tell she has trouble channeling her magic through her wand by the way she is always readjusting her grip, but he will fix that at a later time now that he’s more confident with their starting point. He has her try again, repeating the incantation until her annunciation is as clear as any well respecting English woman’s.

“Ugh, _you_ do it,” she hisses after what feels like Florence’s one-hundredth failed attempt, her eyes nearly catching fire as she glares at the textbook she is supposed to be summoning.

“Alright,” Tom acquiesces, stepping beside her. Twirling his wand for a moment, he catches it and with a flick of his wrist thinks _Accio_ , the book zooming compliantly through the air into her outstretched hands. Florence’s glare deepens, and Tom smiles, knowing the nonverbal showmanship wasn’t strictly necessary, but damn did it feel good when she shook at her own incompetence.

“You make it look so simple.” Her shoulders slump slightly. This is the third time she’s asked him to demonstrate, and after each performance she’s given him a compliment such as this. And if _that_ didn’t do something for his ego…

“You’re not focusing on the spell, I can see how nervous you are. Just relax,” he repeats for what feels like the fiftieth time, clenching his teeth together.

“If _only_ it was that easy.”

“It is,” he cuts, his voice once more steely. Vaguely, in the back of his mind he’s impressed with her ability to verbally spar with him. No one had tried in such a long time, it might have entertained him if they had not been at this for the better part of an hour with no improvement. He knew second years who could perform summoning charms. As it were, he could feel his stomach rumbling because he’d missed dinner to make a lesson plan and he had a few hours of patrol duty to look forward to this evening. It was time for this lesson to be over before he grew to cross to think.

“I think we can call it quits here,” he says, resuming the twirl of his wand between his fingers, eyeing her. “I want you to practice summoning charms every night before going to bed until we meet next Thursday, and then I will re-asses.” Whirling to look at him, Tom can see the fury in every line in her body, in the way her knuckles whiten around the book she is holding.

“You’re assigning me homework?”

“Yes, and if I don’t see improvement next week, I’ll assign you an essay too.” It is only the gentlest flex of his power, but the thrill still runs through him all the same at her reddening skin, the quiver in her voice.

“Unreal,” she mutters to herself, shoving her textbook back into her bag and throwing her robes, which she had discarded during her practice, over her arm.

“If you’d let me, I would escort you to your common room,” he offers when she turns to look for a dismissal. It’s not a kindness – it is simply the proper thing to do and expected of him as Head Boy. To his surprise, she laughs. He can’t remember the last time someone has laughed at him, yet this Allman girl has done it several times throughout the evening.

“Oh my mom would _love_ your manners. The perfect Southern gentleman, aren’t you?” Tom doesn’t know what defines a Southern gentleman, but she doesn’t appear to be insulting him, and so he allows a slow smirk to appear on his face.

“If you’d like me to be,” his murmurs, and his voice is lower when he speaks, his gaze boring into hers.

This time when her cheeks flush, he knows it has nothing to do with her own embarrassment or her blasted pride which made her wand waving so uncertain. He’d been told he was beautiful enough time to believe it, seen the ways girls eyes had followed him even during his first year. He’d seen her staring at him in Herbology, and watching her weight shift slightly from hip to hip, he knew that even Florence Allman, American heiress, wasn’t immune to him. The wave of pleasure he felt was viscous.

“You’re incorrigible,” she says, and then laughs again. “I take it back, my mother would not have liked _those_ manners.” Tom shrugs, unphased by which manners the aforementioned Mrs. Allman would and would not be pleased with.

“Shall we?” He asks, jerking his head towards the door.

They fall into step beside one another, each lost to their own thoughts. Out of the corner of his eye he observes her, the easy confidence with which she seems to glide across the floor, the Grecian profile of her nose – narrow and straight. Avery had already pointed out to Tom and anyone else who would listen during her three day enrollment at Hogwarts how attractive he found Florence. Tom supposed she was pretty enough, but she’d need to learn to curb her tongue. No one in England just walked around saying whatever popped into their brain, and it would get her into trouble. Probably with him. His wand arm itched at the thought.

“I really do appreciate you helping me,” he hears her say, and the fact that she has thanked him not once but _twice_ sends his mind reeling. For a girl with enough money and prestige to never need to speak to him, she seems insistent upon being polite. He wonders if she knows how odd this is.

“It’s not an issue, Allman,” he says, practically purring under her praise. After all, she has no idea just how lucky she is. He is the most gifted student to walk through Hogwarts’ corridors for hundreds of years – she should be on her knees. Two steps later she is speaking again.

“Riddle.” His surname falls like from her lips like sugar, slow and flowing like honey. It sends an electric shock dancing across his skin, and he hates her all the more for it.

“I know you are doing me a favor, and it’s unfair of me to ask, but _please_ ,” she says, and his skin seems to set fire because she’s _begging_ him and it’s the most intoxicating, delicious, enticing sound he’s ever heard. “ _Please_ don’t tell anyone that I’m awful at spell casting. I think I’d _die_ if everyone knew.” He can tell she’s been tossing around her words since they left the Charms classroom, her face is ashen as she puts to voice her greatest fear. The way she’s looking at him, her eyes wide as she pleads, makes his head spin with power.

“You have nothing to worry about, Allman. On my honor,” he smirks, and the relief that washes over her makes him want to throw back his head and cackle with victory. _You foolish American_ he wants to shout. _Anyone would know better than to confide in me_. But she doesn’t know better – she’s so blunt she’s yet to realize no one else is. He wonders if it will come back to bite her.

“Thank you,” she breathes, and for a moment she closes her eyes as if collecting herself. They walk in silence the rest of the way, each lost to their own thoughts. When at last they reach the Ravenclaw common room, their insistent bird shudders to life, interrupting the peace of the castle.

“ _Death is invisible, yet only through seeing it, can I be seen. What am I?_ ” The raven cawed.

“A thestral,” Tom says, his eyes fixed firmly upon Florence beside him.

“ _Good on you!_ ” The bird croaked and the door swung open. Florence paused for a moment, just long enough to flash him a smile wider than the Nile River itself, before she disappeared in a flash of caramel and the door swung shut, leaving Tom alone in the corridor.

His walk back to the Slytherin common room is contemplative. No, she’s not remarkable – he is certain of that now. But she is… _unexpected._ She spoke of native magics and cotillions in the same breath as if somehow they added up to one. He’d never seen anyone like it, certainly never a girl like her. He was accustomed to stiff, docile British women, not outspoken Americans with a habit for saying the wrong thing. Tom can feel the gnawing’s of fascination in his chest, as if she is an enigma he can solve piece by piece. He wants to know every part of her, wants to hear her beg him again and again. With a smile to himself, he offers the password to the Slytherin common room and slips inside.

Florence Allman will most likely come to regret her acquaintance with Tom. The thought makes him giddy.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.”  
― Roald Dahl

Florence didn’t mean to get teary eyed at breakfast, but staring down at the letter she was practically strangling in her white knuckled grasp, she found that the words swam through her unshed waterworks.

_Florie,_

_How’re you hanging in there? Hope the British haven’t got a stick too far up their asses and they aren’t forcing you to drink too much tea. I popped back home last week to visit with Leroy about the harvest coming up, and mom said I should go ahead and pen you a letter even though you haven’t started classes because an international eagle will take so long to reach you. She said I might even have to send this by Albatross – can you imagine?_

_Life at home seems decidedly dull without you in it – I’m so thankful I’m in Boston so its Owen who has to deal with all of mom’s nagging. I went for a ride this morning through the west wood and through the east dittany fields. Made me think of you._

_How is Hogwarts? Finally living your big school dreams? Dad told me you’d been sorted into Ravenclaw, which supposedly means you’re smart – I cannot even begin to explain how disappointed I was. I told him you should try using your wand, no one would think you were smart then. Only kidding of course._

_Hope those dolts over there know how lucky they are to have you. I miss our laughs and sneaking bottles of wine after dinner with you, but happy to know you’re only gone for a year. All my love to you, and whatever is left over to your new friends._

_Write soon,_

_Albion_

Florence had read through the letter three times, admiring Albion’s child-like script as if it was worthy of a museum.

“Oh dear, our firstie is crying over her first piece of mail,” Philip moans, nudging Elizabeth with his elbow and motioning across the table to her.

“Well hand it here,” Elizabeth says without hesitation, sticking out her hand expectantly. Florence passes it over to her, watching like a hawk as her friend’s fingers close around the piece of parchment and drew it towards her.

“Lovely, he sends us his leftover love, Philip,” Elizabeth said, pointing at the line.

“Charming.”

“I’ll take it back if you’re so bothered,” Florence said, holding out her palm. Elizabeth laughs, but complies, handing over the note so that Florence can fold it and stick it into her pack.

“What’s he doing in Boston?” Philip asks, stuffing a large bite of sausage into his mouth so that his cheeks resembles a squirrel.

“He’s working for a cauldron company, engineering new designs, testing new materials. Collapsible, ultra-featherweight, stainless-steel – you know, the whole shebang.”

“Wish my brother did something interesting like that, he just works for my dad,” Philip grunts, his next bite tearing the sausage in two in a manner reminiscent of a wild animal.

“What does Herbert do?”

“Works for my father in retail,” Philip says with a shrug, but she knows him well enough to know that he is avoiding meeting her eye.

“What’s on your schedule today, Florence,” Elizabeth juts in to change the subject and rescue the increasingly more moody Philip, reaching across the table to tap Florence’s empty coffee mug so that it is refilled for her.

“Care of Magical Creatures and Transfiguration,” she says, allowing herself to be successfully distracted as she pulls out and reads from her schedule.

“Shame, I guess you’ll have to make your way across the grounds without us,” Philip chirps.

“Don’t be daft, Philip. Farmer Jane over here can’t wait to run outside and play with the animals.”

“Oh yes I can – not big on _magical creatures,_ ” Florence shudders. “But I do love a good ole Nomaj horse – no gimmicks or games.”

“Do you ride?” Elizabeth asks, her blue eyes warming in a rare moment of excitement.

“Yes, me and my brothers used to ride every day,” Florence tells her, a matching smile spreading across her own face.

“Then you’ll have to come to my home for Samhain this fall. We can run the Steeplechase course if you’re game,” Elizabeth taunts, but her face is flushed in an infrequent smile. Even though it’s only Monday and a full week since Florence has been at Hogwarts, she knows enough to realize how passionate Elizabeth must be about riding. The British held strange opinions about expressing genuine emotion.

“I’d love that, assuming you’re ready to lose, Lizzie,” Florence says with a wink.

“The day I lose to an American is the day I cut off my hair and call myself a muggleborn.”

“Let’s get to class before either of you can rip out the other’s teeth, shall we?” Philip intersects.

Florence parts ways with Elizabeth and Philip in the entrance hall as the pair depart for Divination – a course Florence had opted not to take – and she turns to exit out onto the grounds. Yet she’s been walking alone for mere seconds, however, when a dark, towering figure appears at her side.

“Good morning, Allman,” the incomparable voice of Tom Riddle murmurs, the chill that ripples down her spine unrelated to the morning fog. She’s been thinking of that voice often, more often than she cared to admit, even to herself.

“Riddle,” she says, feeling her smile as she turns to meet his gaze. His obsidian eyes are full despite the deep, leering smirk plastered across his face. It’s the first time she’s seen him up close since last Thursday, yet his hair is still unruffled. Maybe it never is. Beside her his gait is smooth, as precise as every other part of him, and it makes her want to scream and dance and push him until there is some flicker of emotion in his being.

“Care of Magical creatures?” He says by way of question, at last ripping his gaze away from hers to look out over the grounds. His smirk grows wider as if he is having some internal joke with himself.

“Unfortunately.”

“I take it you are not a fan?”

“That would be putting it lightly,” Florence replies, unconsciously shifting her bookbag to the shoulder farthest from Riddle. A breeze stirs past them, carrying with it wisps of mist from the shore and the rich scent of loam and tilled soil

“Why did you take the course then?” He has a manner of asking questions that comes across as more of a demand, the silk of his voice giving way to thunder, enveloping her in the unbridled energy she’d seen in his eyes on only a few occasions during their tutoring session. He was hypnotizing in moments when his blank, polished façade cracked – the emotions he seemed to withhold underneath deep and unknowable as the ocean.

“Didn’t want to take Divination. Sounded like even more of a waste of my time than Care of Magical creatures.” Beside her, his smirk broadens into a smile so brilliant her gut clenches at the sight. It’s the first true smile she’s seen, and for a second she has the foolish thought of wanting to savor it before her pride can batter the embarrassment out of her.

“An astute assumption, Allman.”

“Not a fan of the subject either?”

“I don’t like leaving things to chance. I appreciate control in everything I do,” he murmurs, his voice is low and rumbling and Florence flushes, tearing her eyes away from his figure because she’s horrified by the reactions he coaxes out of her with such ease.

“That explains a lot.”

“Oh? Please feel free to elaborate.”

“You know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You assigning me homework like you’re my teacher or something.”

“I was assigned to tutor you, Allman,” he responds, his tone one shade less agreeable.

“I’ve been practicing though,” she admits skipping past his comment, glancing up at him to gage his reaction. Just as she expected, his typical smirk creeps onto his face once more, his obsidian eyes dancing with the thought that she had actually obeyed his order.

“So you are teachable – I wondered.”

“Remains to be seen, only my great-grandmother ever seemed to think so.”

“You _are_ going to show me what she taught you, you know.” Tom tells Florence as if he has already made the decision for her. No one outside of Florence’s family had ever bossed her around in such a manner, and the fact that this boy – even one as stunningly handsome as Tom Riddle – thought he could was preposterous. She cannot help but laugh.

“Trying to get my family secrets?”

“If it was a secret, you shouldn’t have mentioned it,” he snaps. Florence feels herself beaming, their back and forth making the Head Boy reel as they grapple for influence over the conversation. _He may like control_ Florence thinks, _but he hasn’t met me_.

“You didn’t seem too keen on my _land magics_ last Thursday, as I recall.”

Tom’s jaw is clenched so tight for a moment Florence thinks it might snap. She cannot decipher him, he’s so composed whenever she sneaks looks at him during meals or observes him in class, yet whenever they speak he seems on the verge of blowing up whatever item is closest too him. One moment furious, one moment annoyed, the next his voice sweeping so low that Florence feels a fluttering in her abdomen that makes her hair stand on end and her cheeks stain red. He’s nothing like anyone she’s ever met and it makes her want to sit him down in a remote section of the library and demand the world from him because she’s never not gotten anything she wanted, and she wants to know all of him. Why, of all of the students, did two separate teachers pick him to tutor her? Why is he so quick to anger? What makes him think he can demand anything of her?

“All the same, you will show me,” he hisses when life returns to his stiff form.

“A please would get you a long way, you know,” Florence hisses back just as their professor calls for attention. His cheekbones, cutting like icebergs, color with the slightest shade of pink, the stiffness in his arms at odds with the rush of heat that seems to admit from his being. _He’s having trouble reigning in his magic_ Florence realizes, _all because_ you _got the final word in._ With savage delight she turns to listen for their instruction.

Care of Magical Creatures has them observing and sketching bowtruckles, a task that blessedly does not require Florence to handle them. They are no more than a few inches tall, thin, spindly limbs moving like darts as they spear maggots with splinter-like fingers. It makes Florence want to gag as she watches the white insects writhe in their final throes of life. Pulling out her pad of parchment and a self-inking quill which her father had ordered from New York before school began, she attempts to sketch what she sees before her, but she must admit, she’s captured more of the stick nature of the creatures than the living aspect.

Out of the corner of her eye she is painfully aware of Riddle’s presence, his looming figure standing only a foot or two to her left. His hair has fallen once more into his face in a look that can only be described as devastatingly handsome, his eyes thankfully locked firmly upon the creatures before them or else she might have said and done something rash. Yet his shoulders are tense enough to inform Florence that she is not the only one whose mind is wandering.

She cannot understand him. His self-proclaimed need for control, the red sheen in his eyes when he is undeniably angry, the way the dip in his voice can send her mind spiraling into a place it’s never been before. She wants to ask Elizabeth what his deal is, if he’s always been so enigmatic, but she knows to bring him up will be to bring ridicule upon herself. _Why the sudden interest in Riddle_ Lizzie would sneer, a knowing look upon her face. No, Florence’s pride had taken enough hits in this past week – she did not know if she could handle another.

Florence can’t understand what it is about him that makes her want to needle him. When she pries at Lizzie and Philip, they spar right back – at least until she hits some form of taboo subject that their British sensibilities won’t discuss. But walking down from the castle before the start of class, she’d felt the need to get under his skin, to force him to say _anything_ other than the vague pleasantries he’d spat out during their tutoring lesson.

She knows nothing about him, besides that he is the Head Boy and supposedly brilliant according to his teachers, although all that she has seen of that is an impeccable summoning charm. His nonverbal spell had been a nice touch, singeing a hole right through Florence’s vanity, but it is his voice, low and thunderous murmuring to Florence _if you’d like me to be_ that has informed her more. He’s more than he’s letting on behind his porcelain façade, and his refusal to show it makes her want to rip him limb from limb until he tells her all of his secrets.

Americans are the _ultimate_ consumers, and poor Tom Riddle is going to learn that. Probably the hard way.

They sign their name to their sketches before handing them in and returning to the castle. Riddle is surrounded by Avery and two of the other Slytherin boys that seem to always haunt him, and she’s spared from another verbal joust as they walk up the hill. Part of her is disappointed by this, but she shoves away these thoughts almost as soon as they form. _You’re missing Albion and Owen_ she tells herself, and after the third repetition she has convinced herself.

By the time she has made it to the Transfiguration classroom, only one seat remains unoccupied on the third row. Florence rushes towards it, only recognizing that the seat beside her is filled by an unfamiliar face with yellow capped robes and a mountain’s worth of dark, curly hair.

“Is this seat taken?” Florence pants, seated already but deciding it’s better to ask than be embarrassed later.

“No, please,” the girl replies, her eyes widening to reveal emerald green irises as Florence scoots under her desk and draws out her textbook, throwing it onto the wooden surface with a particularly loud _thump_.

“I’m Florence – Florence Allman,” she informs the girl, who seems positively alarmed by Florence’s whirlwind arrival to class, breathing hard and sweating slightly from her near sprint from the Care of Magical Creatures lab.

“Oh yes, the American transfer? I’d hoped we’d have a class together,” the still unknown girl admits, brightening immediately. She has delicate features and ivory skin that enhance the ease of her smile upon recognizing Florence, the deep green of her eyes.

“And you are?”

“Radella Gilford. I’m in Hufflepuff.”

“Are you a seventh year as well?”

“Sixth. I’m taking my Transfiguration N.E.W.T. a year early so I can pursue an independent study during seventh year,” she whispers, her fair skin practically scalding as she turns a deep shade of maroon in awkwardness. Florence refrains from rolling her eyes; the British insistence upon humility was exhausting.

“Good on you! I’m trash at Transfiguration, if you must know,” Florence says, leaning in conspiratorially before realizing what she’s said, this time taking her turn to blush as she returns her eyes to her copy of _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_. But Radella doesn’t smirk the way Riddle might have at her confession, nor does her mouth drop open in horror like Lizzie and Philip, she only nods understandingly, tucking a stray fistful of curls behind an ear. Immediately Florence feels herself taking a liking to the girl.

“Well, Transfiguration is about all I’m good at. All my other teachers want to hold me back a year – only professor Dumbledore seems to think I’m up to snuff in my classes,” she says. “And besides, Transfiguration is hard. I’m sure you’re good at loads of other stuff.” Florence smiles at her seatmate because she’s nothing if not a sucker for a compliment, and in some aspects it is true.

“Still, I’d cut off an arm to be good at Transfiguration. Professor Dumbledore is giving me lessons,” she offers. Florence knows she ought not to be talking about her extra tutoring unless she wants the entire school to discover her dismal performance in class, but she feels like she can’t keep her mouth shut long enough to even protect her own skin. And besides, something about the willowy frame of Radella Gilford leads her to believe that this girl, at least, will keep her secrets.

“Is he really? Oh, you’re so lucky,” Radella gushes, leaning forward across the table towards Florence. “I don’t know if you know this, but he graduated from Hogwarts a few decades ago – he posted the highest N.E.W.T. scores in two centuries. He’s quite gifted.” This is news to Florence, but she recalls the warm, electric hum that seemed to hang in the air about him as if he was bursting with magic itself, and found that this was not hard to believe.

“Good afternoon, class,” a kindly voice echoes, cutting off Florence from responding to this new information. From behind them, Professor Dumbledore, once more swathed in starry purple robes sweeps from the back of the classroom, his eyes surveying the class with his particular twinkle. “I have your essays which you submitted. I am pleased with the overall attention to detail and mindset each of you has approaching this final year of Transfiguration study, and any notes can be seen at the bottom of your parchment.”

With a flourish he set out about the room, passing back assignments with murmured words to each student. When he finally reaches Florence and Radella’s table, his face splits into a grin.

“Excellent work, as always, Miss Gilford,” he says, handing the trembling, fairy-like girl a scroll sealed with a neat red ribbon. “And Miss Allman – what a delightful perspective. I look forward to discussing your essay with you.”

Florence feels a stone sink into her stomach. She’d forgotten all about her private lesson this evening. With a nod to the man, Florence unrolled her scroll to see an _E_ written at the top of her paper.

“What does this _E_ mean?” Florence whispers, pointing at the letter and racking her brain for something she could have missed and drawing up blank after blank.

“It’s part of our grading scale in Great Britain. _E_ means Exceeds Expectations. _O_ is the best – for Outstanding – then _E_ , then Acceptable. After that are the failing grades – Poor, Dreadful, and _Troll_.” Radella shivers at the last word, as if she can imagine nothing worse than receiving a Troll.

“Well I bet you’ve got nothing to worry about. Straight _O’s_ all year I’d imagine. You can help me with my next essay,” Florence mutters. Radella beams.

Florence’s second Transfiguration class goes much as her first had to her annoyance. They are again attempting to transform their textbooks into songbirds, a task that Dumbledore, in his own words, seemed convinced was a “fun and creative task” which would engage his students at the beginning of the term. Radella managed it on her second attempt, the fiery red and green plumage putting even Elizabeth’s bird from the previous week to shame. If the girl hadn’t been so lovely, Florence might have hissed at her.

Whenever she tried to cast the spell, Florence could feel the tightening in her gut, the subtle stirrings of her magic somewhere within her ribcage where it was housed, but she couldn’t channel it. There seemed to be a mental block within her that revolved around saying a word and expecting the magic to simply _occur_. When at last the class was called to end, Florence glanced around to see a few all black or white hatchlings, and several other books with the odd beak or feather, but she was comforted to know that there were at least a few others who still seemed unable to grasp the concept yet.

“Your bird is incredible,” she says wistfully, watching as Radella tapped it on the head with a smart motion and a book was found in its place a second later.

“I’m sure yours will be too once you get the hang of it.”

With a soft farewell and parting smile, Florence watched the Hufflepuff girl depart before turning to face Professor Dumbledore. To her surprise, he was busy summoning the assortment of feathers from the floor before incinerating them mid-air and allowing the ashes to fall into the trashcan he held in his hand.

“Florence – would you mind helping me to push the chairs under the desks? I like to leave the classroom tidy for the next day’s lessons,” he asks, smiling at her over his glasses.

“Of course, sir,” she says, getting to her feet and working her way from back to front, unsure why he is using her tutoring time to have her clean, but resigning herself to what she expects from her limited association with the Professor will be an odd, albeit illuminating lesson. When she is finished, Florence finds herself standing before his desk, hands wrapped tightly around her wand.

“Please take a seat,” Dumbledore offers, waving his wand so that a three-legged, cushioned stool appears out of thin air with nothing more than a slight _pop_. Florence sits.

“Now. I’d like to discuss your essay if you please,” he murmurs, summoning her scroll of parchment with another nonverbal wave of his wand – one which Florence recognizes from her nightly practicing of _Accio_. Catching it in one hand, he unravels it, blue eyes dancing across the page until he seems to find what he is looking for. Florence feels a tingling along the base of her neck, desperate to know what he is going to say about her paper which she is convinced he went easy on.

“Ah, here we are,” he says, and then he begins to read. “ _The idea of creating sentience is riddled with fallacies of many natures. First to determine sentience – the ability to be aware. We humans categorize ourselves at the top of the sentient food-chain, yet is the willow or the oak any less sentient for its lack of thought? Trees grow in the ground that is best suited for them, on some level aware of the direction of the light and responsive to the rainfall, yet we do not consider them to be thinking creatures. And what is more, the idea that we as magical creatures can create sentience is to wrongly imply that it is the wizard who gifts the life to the species. Yet it is magic, not the wizard, which may do so. At all times witches and wizards are no more than a conduit for the magic of the world, and not vice versa._ ”

Dumbledore finishes reading the excerpt from her essay, setting the paper down upon his desk and turning to observe her. His fingers lace together, blue eyes unblinking as he meet’s Florence’s own gaze. For several long breaths they sit in silence.

“Well as you can imagine, I was fascinated by your paper,” he began when at last Florence thought she might explode if he did not comment. Her mouth fell open. “Very rarely do I get a paper which provides a contrasting opinion, but even more rare is a paper which calls into question the very query I am proposing.”

“I’m sorry sir - ” she began, but he held up his hand for Florence to stop. With great effort she swallowed her next stream of words.

“You misunderstand me, I am _pleased_ to have a student that challenges the very structure by which we do magic. I have often felt that Hogwarts is restricting its students by providing only the narrow, European lens by which to view spellwork.”

“I’m sorry sir,” Florence repeats again because despite his kind tone, she cannot determine whether he is frustrated with her or in awe. “I’ve only had a handful of practical magic lessons. Most of them were for household spells.”

“Quite so, and yet you have very profound ideas on where magic originates from and how it is utilized. If I may ask, who first instructed you in the ways of magic?”

“My great-grandmother, sir.”

“And if I may be even more bold, would it be right for me to assume that she is not of European descent?”

“No sir, she wasn’t. Adsila was Cherokee.”

“Of course. I have very limited knowledge of the Native peoples of the Americas, so instead of presuming, I would ask you to summarize to the best of your ability the types of lessons your great-grandmother gave you.”

“They were very…different from what you study here, or what my brothers studied at Ilvermorny,” Florence began, staring intently at the corner of Dumbledore’s desk and ignoring to the best of her ability his penetrating stare. “Adsila taught me that magic resides in many things, in us, in the land, in our names, even in movement, but that all of that magic was connected, not separate. It was the great spirits who portioned out the magic, and by gifting it too us, they unintentionally cut individuals off from other forms of magic.”

“And Adsila taught you to access other forms of magic?”

“Magic of the land and of language and of name. I’m sorry, I’m not doing a good job of explaining it, but Adsila taught me in Cherokee and I don’t know how it would work in English,” Florence said, frustrated for perhaps the first time in her life that between her nine spoken languages, she could not translate the knowledge into something he could understand. At her comment, Dumbledore smiled, at last drawing her attention back to his face.

“My dear, Florence. Please forgive me, but I have been blessed with a larger intellect than most and find that I am quite able to follow you. Your explanation, however, does provide some insight into why you are struggling to achieve any results in class.”

“Sir?” Florence asks, because now she is the one who is lost.

“From a young age you were taught that the magic within you was tied to the magic around you and in other beings. However, European sorcerer’s saw no tie between wizarding magic and any other forms of magic, and so wands were developed and used as conduits for personal magic. It is why there is such variance amongst wizards – we each have different magical cores, some with more strength and stability, others smaller or more unhinged. You have been creating the same process, using your body and your voice and your innate magic instead of a wand as the conduit for both your inherent magic and the magic around you. It means that the reserves of magic you are drawing upon are much larger, and the potential for powerful spellcasting much greater than that of almost any which or wizard if properly mastered.”

Florence felt as if the room was spinning around her. She’d never once put much thought into how the teachings Albion and Owen varied from those of their great-grandmother’s. To her magic was magic, regardless of the form. She’d never stopped to consider that others might not be drawing from the magic around them as well as their own – it had seemed obvious until this moment.

“I believe that the blockages you are experiencing in this class and in others are as a result of you attempting to access the magic around you as you have grown up doing while using wand motions and phrases that are intended only for your internal magic,” Dumbledore explained, and Florence felt a rush of overwhelming appreciation for the man before her. She wasn’t incapable – she would be able to learn. “While I would not wish for you to forget the indelible lessons your great-grandmother has taught you, I believe that this foray into European spellwork will give you greater mastery of your innate magic, which can later be applied to greater mastery of your Cherokee teachings and abilities with wider magics.”

There was a roaring in Florence’s ears as she spoke, a swelling in her chest that was threatening to drown her. If what he was telling her was true, Florence could learn magic that would make her more powerful than half of her peers, let alone wizards worldwide. She had only hoped to gain a glimpse of the knowledge her brothers had been given when she’d begged to attend Hogwarts, but before her, Professor Dumbledore was promising her an entirely new viewpoint and control over magic which could make her years of being denied completely worth it. The thought was intoxicating.

“Well, I don’t know about you, Professor,” Florence said, tucking a lock of waves behind her ear and leaning forward on her stool. “But I’m dying to get started.” With a smile large enough to match her own, Dumbledore reached into one of his many pockets and placed something so miniscule onto his desk that Florence could not see what it was until he removed his hand.

“We will begin by transfiguring this button into a beetle.”

By the time Florence left his class half an hour later, she hadn’t perfected the spell, but her button had grown legs and scuttled two full laps around Dumbledore’s desk. It was astounding improvement, and enough to carry her smugly and bursting with magic into the Great Hall for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello:) I'm back and updating pretty soon after the last chapter! I'm so grateful for all the responses I got - Tom's POV is so fun because he's such a big baby and also terrifying and I just love him. 
> 
> I did want to say at the conclusion of this chapter - I myself and not Native American, but I have been researching the Cherokee tribe specifically for this story and am familiar with them from school (not of course that I am an expert). It is not my intent to offer any offense, and actually my hope was that Florence's relations to the Cherokee tribe was one of the aspects that made her stronger. Native Americans have suffered centuries of undue hardship and abuse, and I just want to clarify that it is not my intention here: anything in reference to Florence's great-grandmother's magic I intended to be read as a force for positive good:) Also, while Florence's view on magic are undeniably influenced and guided by her great-grandmother, she is for the most part socially and culturally an American of European descent. I guess you could say she's a....melting pot. (haha I'm sorry I already hate myself for that joke).
> 
> On a completely different note, if you think Florence is obsessed with Tom... it's because she is. I know we all know that he is terrifying, but I wanted to explore a relationship with Tom where someone doesn't know all of the dark things in Tom's future (so basically the opposite approach to Tomione! )
> 
> Anyways - enough talking from me. Thank you as always to everyone reading and hope to hear what you think! I'm working on chapter 11 now so definitely staying ahead of the game right now. Hope it lasts!!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

“There are no bargains between lion and men. I will kill you and eat you raw.”  
― Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

Florence got lost not once, but twice on the way to the owlery. The first time she had made the mistake of thinking that the owlery was connected to the actual castle, and had been wandering from tower to tower in utter confusion until Professor Levisor stumbled across her and informed Florence that the owlery was, in fact, a separate structure. Thus corrected, she’d set off to find the entrance hall only to find that the door she had used to enter the hallway was one way, and she’d spent the better part of a quarter hour pulling on each of the picture frames until one of them opened. By the time she was outside and had spotted the small tower, Florence could feel herself fuming.

In her hand she held two separate scrolls of parchment, the first to her father, and the second to her home for her mother, Owen, and Albion. She had considered writing duplicates to prevent each parent cross examining what information had been given to one another, but she decided against it, knowing that what she had to say to her father varied greatly from what her mother and brothers needed to hear. She’d written to her father first, because it was easier to picture an owl finding its way across Scotland and England to their gentle manor in Somerset than to imagine a miniscule bird winging its way across the Atlantic.

_Dad,_

_How are you? Although it has only been two weeks since we said goodbye at the train station, I miss you terribly. I would say that I hope that the new home is boring and dull without me in it to keep you company, but I already know it is so I’ll save my breath._

_I don’t know what I expected of Hogwarts looking back, but it certainly was not this! The castle is so full of magic even the stones seem to be alive under your feet, pulsing with their own enchantments. I know great-grandmother would faint if she could feel the power in this place. Classes are a strange mix – in some I find that I am so ahead I can daydream the entire lecture, and in others I am so far behind that even with the private tutoring I’m receiving, I wonder if it will ever be enough. My transfiguration teacher, Professor Dumbledore, has made some real breakthroughs with me in our first lesson and in our most recent one this past Monday, and you’ll never believe it. I transfigured a button into a beetle!_

_I’ve made a handful of friends thus far. Elizabeth Greengrass is my closest companion, and I’ve fallen in also with her friend Philip Burke. Both of them are fellow seventh year Ravenclaws so they didn’t have much of an option seeing as they are stuck with me, but they are both wonderful and easy to get along with. Elizabeth’s dad holds a seat on the Wizengamot and she’s written to him to encourage him to seek you out at the Ministry when they are in session. I thought I should warn you. The Greengrass’s seem to take no prisoners if you catch my drift, so be warned, he may be frightening._

_I’m loving my classes, although at times I am dismayed to wake up and see the Scottish highlands and not the barn and the fields out of my window. I know that you will be returning home soon to help with the harvest – what I would give to go with you! Since harvest does fall during Samhain, Lizzie has invited me to stay with them for their celebrations. Apparently it’s the party of the year, but Lizzie also wouldn’t admit if it wasn’t. Please let me know if you are alright with me attending._

_Sending all of my love._

_Florence_

She took her time selecting an owl from the racks, at last summoning two large barn owls that seemed especially capable of bearing her first letters from school, and with a final stroke of their feathers, the two creatures opened their wings and were off. Florence watched them from the window until they grew into specks and disappeared, a heaviness growing in her chest that seemed to drag her shoulders down.

Her walk back to the castle was subdued. How long would it take her letter to reach the Americas, let alone Georgia? Would it be October already by the time her mother unrolled her carefully worded scroll? It was only in still moments like these, where she at last allowed her mind to steady, which Florence could recognize and name the familiar ache beneath her ribs where her family resided. Did her mother have enough to do without Florence to pester into submission, and who encouraged Owen to leave his books and join them for a ride through the pastures or a lively game of wizard’s checkers? She’d fully expected _them_ to miss _her_ – she was after all the life of the party. How foolish she had been not to realize that missing people was mutual. Florence had never had cause to miss anyone before, and now when at last she did, there was an ocean between them.

It was these thoughts which carried Florence in from the grounds through the Front Hall and meandering down corridors without paying attention to where she was headed. It was still her free period before Transfiguration, leaving her plenty of time to wallow in her own misery uninterrupted without the judgmental or absent minded stares of Lizzie and Philip.

Florence heard it before she saw it.

It was a scream, sharp and piercing straight to the marrow – the sound of the wind during a tornado, a horse that has broken its leg. A bolt of lightning seemed to go through her, all conscious thought fleeing her mind. She’d grown up on a plantation, had a father who dealt with dangerous beasts and potions – Florence knew the sound of pain, the all encompassing wretchedness of it that was like peeling your skin away one strip at a time until your body doesn’t resemble a human’s, doesn’t resemble anything at all.

Without any thought for herself, Florence rounded the corner to see a small gathering of bodies, two figures upon the ground writhing, a smoking trickle of liquid seeping across the floor. She moves as if in a dream, because already Florence understood what has happened. The ripe char of burnt flesh, the whiff of smoke, and the angry red blotches across the extended arms of the two trembling first years. About them students stood transfixed, watching in mixes of horror and helplessness as their counterparts suffered, broken glass that moments before had been transferring potion glittering at their feet.

Florence was only eight when Owen had accidently spilled a vat of Dittany her father had been brewing, the scalding liquid searing his entire body yet somehow blessedly missing his face, but his screams had carried from across the field to the home. She’d run after her family, heart thundering so loud she couldn’t hear his command not to follow, been forced to look upon Owen’s mutilated flesh before her father had been able to heal him.

She draws closer down the corridor to the gathering crowd, using her height to shoulder past nameless faces, one hand already shoved within her bag for the vial she knows is there. She’d brewed it with her dad for a moment just as this, both of them using laughter to put off the thought that she might ever truly _need_ such a concoction when she reached Hogwarts and was out of the reach of her family’s loving grasp. Her fingers glide over textbook covers, across feather quills and grasp at inkwells which she knows by touch are the wrong size, the wrong temperature, until at last, at _last_ Florence’s hand closes around a glass vial with a diamond cut face. It is burning to the touch, and still the stone walls are echoing with screams.

“Please step back,” a voice is saying. It is like thunder and the grinding of boulders, like silk and everything perilous, wrapping around Florence until it again sounds, this time directly in front of her.

“Allman, _what_ do you think you are doing? I just told you to step back.”

Tom Riddle is standing before her, blocking from view the two thrashing bodies, his presence somehow muffling their cries as if he is the sole commander of the universe, breaking the laws of sound at will. He is perfectly calm, not one faultless chocolate curl out of place, his porcelain skin so white it could be translucent, yet his voice carries the edge she has come to recognize as annoyance from their tutoring sessions, as if she is not worth the energy it took him to acknowledge her very presence.

Florence is aware of several things at once, her senses sent into chaos as the rumble of Tom’s voice fights with the wails of the students behind him. She can feel the vial of Dittany concentrate burning in her grasp, each breath cool and cutting in contrast to its heat as air races down into her lungs, propelling oxygen into her frazzled brain. He is so close to her, closer than he has ever been, and over the murmur of voices and the pungent stench of spilled potion and burning skin she notices, to her _fury,_ that his eyes are not black but the deepest midnight, a blue so rich it begs to be seen, and in those midnight depts is complete and utter distain. For her.

She wants to slap him.

She wants to turn his white skin red, to leave a mark so indelible that he never looks at her with such contempt again.

“I can help them,” she says, breathless, but whether from nerves or her reeling mind she does not know.

“I’ve already sent a student for the nurse,” Riddle responds.

“Oh, congratulations, and while she takes the next quarter hour to respond, I could have them healed in moments, so _step. Aside._ ” Florence practically spits, her hand clutching the Dittany tightening so the edges of the glass threaten to break the skin of her palm.

“Do you think I’m daft?” He hisses, and he draws nearer so that their faces are mere breaths apart. She can count each of his eyelashes, see the rim of sky around his pupil, the darting of his tongue between his teeth as he forms words like poison. The glass of his face is cracking and it is only her rage which prevents her from becoming entranced. “You can’t even perform a _summoning_ charm and you think I’d let you anywhere near these two kids? Everything is under my control, Allman.”

“I don’t think you’re daft, just a pig who’s so desperate to have this scenario under his grasp you won’t get your head out of the mud for two seconds in order to _let. Me. Help. Them!_ ” Florence whispers back, thrusting her empty hand out into the hair to gesture around his cavernous body towards where the two children are still shuddering. And there it is – the sharpening of his jaw as he bites back whatever cutting remark he is thinking because she knows, she _knows_ he’s angry, but he is curious too about what she can do.

Without waiting for his approval she brushes past him, shoulder scraping shoulder, ignoring his outraged shout of _Allman,_ and stoops beside the first child who’s screams have faded into whimpers. His arms are camouflaged in various shades of reds, pinks, and deepest maroons, the smell of burning flesh all the more overwhelming up close. Florence is careful not to kneel in puddles of the still smoking purple liquid surrounding them.

“Hi, honey,” she murmurs, pressing her open hand onto the top of his head, smoothing his hair like he is no more than a toddler crying over a splinter, a horse spooked by some unknown creature. The first year looks at her, his eyes large and brown and trusting, and Florence feels like she’s back in Georgia.

“Honey, my name is Florence,” she begins again, the hand petting his hair never stilling. “I’ve got this potion called Dittany which I’m gonna use to fix up your burns, okay?” The boy nods, perhaps overcome by the sugar of her voice, the drawl of her vowels into something low and mellow. With a smile, she reveals the burning vial which is grasped in her other fist, the sage and silver liquid floating, almost gaseous, in its diamond casing. Twisting off the cap, Florence is at once grounded by the familiar crisp, medical scent of Dittany, and pushing past the fluttering in her chest, she grasps the dropper within the vial with shaking fingers.

“This won’t hurt a bit, sugar,” she croons, and with a delicate flourish she squeezes the dropper and allows splashes of pale green liquid to splatter across the worst of his burns, her other hand coming to rest on his shoulder. There is immediate relief on his face, a loosening of muscles as his mouth falls open and his eyes stay riveted to his own skin as angry, pus filled blisters fade into nothing more than pale, silvery scars.

“Rub this across your burns,” Florence instructs, placing several drops into his palms before scrambling across the floor to the second child and repeating the process. It is only moments later that Florence is standing beside the two children, her Dittany Concentrate resealed and stowed once more within her bag. By the time the nurse has arrived several minutes later, the crowd save Head Boy Tom Riddle who has been watching from the side with a stoic face and glint in his eye has dispersed. The two children, who are still marveling at their newly healed skin, willingly follow behind the matron as they head to the Hospital Wing for nothing more than a tonic for shock.

“Dittany Concentrate,” the now familiar, rumbling voice of Tom Riddle says – a statement – not a question. Florence turns to face him, his narrow, towering frame leaning against the wall, arms crossed as he surveys her. It is only in that moment that she realizes she is still standing within the ring of smoking potion. With a smirk that does not reach his eyes, she watches as he gives a silent flick of his wand and the spilled liquid vanishes, as if he’s read her mind.

“Yes,” Florence responds, unsure suddenly of how to hold her body or where to direct her gaze because now she knows that his eyes are _midnight blue_ and it’s ridiculous because he’s just embarrassed her and called out her weaknesses in front of a crowd of students and _that_ is all she can think about.

“It is exceedingly rare, and yet you just so happen to have a vial?” he murmurs, his gaze never leaving her face. Florence opts to look down the hall instead of back at him, a frugal attempt at clearing her mind now that any immediate danger has passed. She feels it again, the desperate need to shatter the mask that has slid onto his face once more, but she doesn’t know why.

It has been two weeks since he first tutored her, since Florence paired the name Tom Riddle with his haunting face, two weeks since he leaned in and murmured he could be a Southern gentleman if she wanted him to be in a voice so like silk her body had seemed to levitate. That voice which had hinted at so much _more_ which had driven her mad during classes, watching his delicate hands as they raised to answer questions, his pale lips quirking with a smirk during meals, the trail of his eyes to hers in a stare so blank her chest would freeze. They’d had two more lessons, and to her complete and utter frustration she’d learned nothing more about him except that he was unforgiving as a teacher, the one gentle hint of a smile at her first properly performed summoning charm such a deviation from his typical behavior it had sent Florence reeling with giddiness. But he’d never given her the honey voice he used in class when he got _every_ answer right, nor the deep one which she felt in her toes, only the strict, authoritarian which commanded her every wand movement.

Brilliant, indifferent, thunderous Tom Riddle who was like an explosion happening inside a steel cage. Enigmatic and haunting and probably not worth her time but Florence couldn’t look away.

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” she says, trying to calm the flush across her cheeks. The vial in her bag is worth a hundred galleons at least, she’d never meant to show anyone, but it _had_ been an emergency.

“Your father owns Dittany fields,” he confirms, and Florence is forced to look at him this time. His face is still inscrutable.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever told you that.”

“I know a lot of things about you, Allman,” he whispers, and his voice is lower than it has ever been and time is freezing and for a moment it is only them and the chemical and electrical impulses snapping between their bodies.

“My name is Florence,” she tells him, because alone in this hallway, glaring at each other like lions over a kill, it _bothers_ her that he won’t say it. That he won’t acknowledge her. And to her complete shock, he smirks, then smiles – full and broad and blinding – and again she is overcome with that annoying urge to savor it, as if somehow it is a gift.

“Alright, Florence then,” he complies. Her name is like velvet from his mouth and she’s never loved it more. No boy from Georgia, Carolina, or anywhere has ever said her name like it was a song, made her want to hear it over and over again.

“Feeling agreeable?” She mutters, because despite the imbalance in which he seems to always place her, she cannot completely give him the upper hand. Riddle shrugs, a small motion.

“How did you get that Concentrate? Did your father make it?” He asks, returning to their prior subject.

“I made it,” she snaps, because of course even Riddle who does nonverbal magic like it’s the same as reading would assume that a man had made the difficult potion.

“And you just carry it around with you all the time? Like it’s pumpkin juice?”

“You were lucky I had it on me!”

“Those kids weren’t in any real danger, Madam Louise would have seen to them once she got here,” he says, his head falling to the side as he observes her, like this is another of their lessons and he’s testing her.

“Are you mad? Did you hear them screaming? The potion was eating their skin, Riddle –” she begins, but he interrupts her before her anger can consume her once more.

“Tom,” he states.

“What?”

“Call me Tom. If we’re insisting on first names, you will call me Tom.” It is a command. It is another test.

“Tom,” she acquiesces before she can think, watching his face for even the slightest hint that she has any of the same effect on him that he has on her, but he is like marble – unflinching.

“How do you know what my dad does?” His smirk is unbearable, burning a hole right through her chest.

“Now that hardly seems fair. Why should I tell you how I discover all your little secrets when you won’t show me your _land magics_?” He’s mocking her and she hates him for looking beautiful while doing it.

“Your digging into my personal information! I’m not doing that to you,” she huffs, crossing her arms before her, challenging his midnight gaze.

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m an orphan, there’s no family to look up,” he says, but his voice is dry and emotionless, like he is reading from the prophet, not explaining some traumatic personal history.

“I’m sorry,” she offers, not because he is parentless but because he has no roots and Florence cannot comprehend a life where there is nothing tying you down, grounding you to the Earth.

“They were inconsequential, in the end.”

“That’s not how you should speak of your family.”

“I’ve never had one,” he snaps. Florence stares at the stone floor, suddenly unable to bear his face, the weight of his eyes upon hers.

“I can’t imagine,” she murmurs.

“Yes, well, not all of our fathers inherited acres of Dittany fields,” he mutters, but his voice is harsh and cracking and Florence feels a welling of pity despite her best efforts.

“How did you know I was using Dittany Concentrate?” She asks, sneaking a glance up at him.

“I’m familiar with its uses from readings.”

“Of course you are. You’ve probably read the entire library.”

“Not all of us had Governesses who taught us seven languages, Florence,” he sneers, but she knows him now. He’s given her a key, the smallest crevasse by which she can crawl through the mask he wears, and beneath his words she can hear the longing and jealousy and all-consuming bitterness. 

“You’re always so angry,” she observes instead of pointing out the obvious. That her Governess failed in other areas, couldn’t teach her true magic. Florence will not humble herself, not even for Tom the orphan.

“You are very outspoken.”

“My mother thinks so,” Florence agrees.

They are still standing in the hall when the conversation fades and dies, leaving only the strange, pulsing energy that seems to pass between the two of them. She wants to ask him about himself, he looks like he wants to hex her for some unknown reason. She knows they are at an impasse, the question now is only which of them will break first. Florence is stubborn, but looking at the steel framed boy across from her, she considers that he too looks like someone who’s never not gotten what he wants.

“You should get to class,” Tom says at last, breaking the silence that held them. “It’s nearly class change, and you won’t want to be late for Transfiguration.”

It is only later that evening as Florence is seated beside Philip and Lizzie at the Ravenclaw table relaying the tale of the Dittany that Florence realizes that Tom has memorized her schedule.

She can feel his gaze from across the room in that moment without looking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for my lovely comments! Very grateful:)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh more Tom POV... my sweet, deranged boy

Chapter 7

“Life is both pain and pleasure. If this is the price you must pay for the hours you enjoy, is it too much?”  
― Christopher Paolini, Eldest

Tom crosses one leg over the other, leaning back against the unforgiving wooden frame of his favorite library chair, eyes scanning across the scroll in his hands. The handwriting is wide and neat – decidedly girlish – but he appreciates anyone who can make the most of twelve inches, even if it is Florence Allman.

He’d taken the scroll from her bag when she’d had the nerve to seat herself directly beside him during their Friday afternoon Ancient Runes lesson. A silent reparation that she was to pay for flashing him her most winning smile, the one that made his stomach clench with what Tom assumed could only be nausea, for the way her long, caramel waves had fallen in front of her face, sending the lingering scent of coffee and honey from her breakfast wafting across their shared desk, invading his personal space. So he’d taken her homework, stuffing it into his own bag when he pretended to adjust one of his socks.

What he’d seen at the top of her paper when at last he’d reached the library had only infuriated him further. An _E_ was scrawled in the corner of the paper in the familiar, looping handwriting of Albus Dumbledore – the one professor who seemed to think Tom wasn’t as spectacular as the rest of the castle. That old git still held the stealing incident he’d discovered in the orphanage over Tom’s head, and of course his not completely unfounded – but entirely unproven – suspicions about the Chamber of Secrets. Of course the loony old transfiguration teacher would take a liking to Florence Allman, of course he’d appreciate the girl who’d had the entire _world_ handed to her while Tom himself had been forced to fight for scraps, to earn his rightful place in the wizarding society. Calming his mind once more, he returned to reading the essay.

… _And what is more, the idea that we as magical creatures can create sentience is to wrongly imply that it is the wizard who gifts the life to the species. Yet it is magic, not the wizard, which may do so. At all times witches and wizards are no more than a conduit for the magic of the world, and not vice versa…_

He grudgingly admits her perspective is fascinating, albeit partially incorrect. Transfiguration was not about creating life, but the replication of it – a mockery of it. Yet there was something profound in the idea that magic itself could be sentient, an idea which made his mind whirl at one-hundred kilometers per minute with the possibilities.

Her thoughts surprise him, although why he continues to be surprised by her he is uncertain. The Dittany Concentrate had surprised him, as had her complete refusal to back down when he’d ordered her away from the children. Her Egyptian hieroglyphics translation in their Ancient Runes class had been spotless – the only other seventh year up to snuff with Tom – but she had managed it without the accompanying textbook, not of course that he’d been watching.

And then there was their argument? Debate? She’d called him a pig and he’d just let it slide because his mind had been staggering over her pronunciation of his name, his _filthy_ muggle name that he never let anyone call him, let alone _encouraged_. To-om, like it was two, sugary syllables, the “o” stretched to cross some great divide. He’d felt the energy fluttering between the two of them as they’d faced off, and he’d wanted to jinx her because why did he _like_ talking to her? She refused to play by every pure-blood tradition, speaking her mind, meeting his gaze, driving him to react in ways that weren’t in line with his poised, Head Boy image.

And now he’d noticed that it wasn’t just when they were talking that he was looking for her. His eyes found her at meals, in class, searching for her distinct caramel head through the sea of students between class changes. He had multiple people researching her family, owls arriving almost daily with reports of her father’s movements, her family wealth, every pure-blood she was ever so distantly related too.

“Riddle,” a voice murmurs, and pulling his eyes away from Florence’s script he spares a glance upwards at the broad, dark haired figure of Leonidas Lestrange standing across from him.

“What.”

“From my father,” the boy says, handing Tom another tightly wound scroll with a black wax seal. Unbroken. Tom takes it without a thanks, Lestrange seating himself across the table without a comment.

Sliding his finger under the wax, he peels open the roll and reads:

_Missive dated first of October, 1944:_

_To: Clifford Allman, Allman Estates, Ltd., Special Liaison to the DMLE_

_From: Hector Fawley, Head: Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

_Cliff,_

_Please stop by my office this afternoon so that we may renegotiate the sales agreement concluded last Wednesday pending your upcoming harvest. There is new information which may require a larger purchase on behalf of the DMLE._

_Hector_

Tom tossed the paper onto the table which Leonidas grabbed to read. His fingers still tingled with the residue of Lestrange Senior’s duplication charm as Tom ran them through his hair, frustrated. He’d hoped when he had called in a favor from the acting head of the Auror office that the results would be more _revealing_ , but alas, it seemed that Clifford Allman, stalwart of the Allman business empire, was insistent upon being completely dull.

“Not what you wanted, I presume?”

“No.”

“Father’s been curious about him too, but he says the man spends most of his time in their rented manor out in Somerset,” Lestrange notes with a shrug, also discarding the missive onto the table. Not wanting to get caught with an illegal object, Tom pressed the tip of his wand to the parchment, watching as it reduced to ashes which he banished with a final flourish of his wand.

“Interesting,” Tom says, pulling forward Florence’s Transfiguration homework again to read for the fifth time, even though Clifford Allman’s comings and goings were anything _but_ interesting. He was buttoned up and predicable and now that Tom knew about his business dealings, he was continuously less curious about them. The Allman man was as bound as the rest of the pure-blooded men by their very niche viewings on power as defined as an economic and social commodity. Glancing down at the ring on his finger, Tom smirked.

_He_ knew what real power was. What it meant to be truly _remarkable._

“Leo!” A voice calls in a volume slightly too loud to be appropriate for the library. Tom clenches his teeth, but does not look up, recognizing the brash tones of Pyrrhus Avery. “Riddle,” he adds a moment later when the blonde, hulking figure appears around the bookshelf and lays eyes upon the dark haired, Head Boy.

“What’s that,” Leonidas asks, nodding head towards the letter partially crumpled in Pyrrhus’ grasp.

“Letter from dad, they’re good on the research. Going to put in an offer after Samhain.”

“Didn’t find any skeleton’s in the closet?”

“A few,” Pyrrhus says with his trademark, shit-eating grin as he seats himself beside Leonidas, a safe distance across the table from where Riddle is observing the pair. “But what’s a sacred twenty-eight without a few murders, missing husbands?”

“Think she knows?” Leonidas asks, resting an elbow on the table as they discuss.

“Has too. I mean surely? Greengrass’ father has ears everywhere.”

“Betrothal. That’s big, Phy,” Leonidas chimes, his brotherly nickname falling from his lips without a second thought. Avery and Lestrange had grown up together – both fathers on the Wizengamot, firstborn sons, and raised on equally ostentatious manors outside of Godric’s Hollow – they had been the most skeptical of Tom’s presence in Slytherin freshman year, and the first to fall at his knees begging forgiveness when he’d proved to them his _true_ heritage. With a smirk, Tom recalled their quaking figures as they stood before the entrance to the Chamber, knees knocking and upper lips sweating far under the castle where their Gringotts vaults and last names couldn’t save them. _That_ was big, not Avery’s arranged betrothal to Elizabeth Greengrass.

“Suppose I’ll have to enjoy my final month of freedom.”

“And you’re sure of the bloodlines?”

“Dad traced them back three hundred years. Greengrass’s and Avery’s haven’t married in over a century.”

Tom has heard these discussions before, the pure-blood insistence on intermarriage driving them to practical inbreeding, extinction looming as marriages failed to produce enough offspring. Of course Avery Sr. had researched the genealogy of Elizabeth Greengrass – he would want at least three grandchildren to warrant the expense of the marriage a success. It was sad, really, that the pure-blood families views on power had been warped by such menial things like last names and matrimony. Of course, Tom _should_ have been born with a last name more powerful than Lestrange, Avery, or any other wizard foreign or domestic, but obviously that did not bother him…

“Lestrange,” he cuts in before he’s forced to listen to Avery’s chorusing rendition of Elizabeth Greengrass’s _feminine charms_. Immediately they are both silent as Tom takes the moment to roll up his scroll before continuing. “How is Fawley adjusting to Hogwarts?”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on him. Seems to enjoy Slytherin fine, has taken a liking to me and Phy.”

“Good. I want him kept agreeable,” Tom instructs, lingering over the last word so that his meaning cannot be misconstrued, even by someone as dense as Pyrrhus Avery. Thankfully, Leonidas has his own level of cunning, and just nods. Tom hates politics amongst many things, but for now he needed the sacred twenty-eight and their affluence until he can forge a legacy of his own. It was vital Fawley be brought into the fold.

Lestrange and Avery return to their conversation and Tom falls once more into silence before getting to his feet a moment later, Florence’s scroll still held loosely in his grasp. Leaving behind his fellow seventh years, Tom makes his way through the shelves, searching for a quiet place now that his previous table has been commandeered. It is as he moves to the back left corner that his eye is drawn to a figure buried behind a pile of books, almost as if Tom’s own wandering mind had summoned her.

Florence is sitting in one of the plush, maroon upholstered chairs, legs tucked beneath her, a massive tome resting in her lap. Before her on the table several other stacks of books nearly hide her from view, bronzed skin gleaming as light from the window behind her illuminates her skin.

“Allman,” Tom calls out without thinking, a knee jerk reaction that infuriates him almost as much as his feet do as they carry him into the seat beside her, angling the chair so that he is turned completely to face her. Under his stare he sees the wrinkle in her lip that he knows means she is suppressing a smile, although she does not lift her eyes from the book in her lap.

“I thought I’d told you to call me Florence.”

“Florence,” Tom murmurs for the second time, tilting his head to the side so that he can admire the way her cheeks flush, her mouth peels into a full smile, broad and uninhibited. He likes that, he decides. That he can make her smile with something so small, so menial. It is a form of control he has never tried to utilize before, but her reactions fascinate some baser part of his being.

“Come to lecture me on shield charms?” Florence asks, finally lifting her head from the page before her to meet his gaze, chestnut eyes crinkled in the corners as she smiles at him. He doesn’t know if anyone has ever smiled at him as much as Florence has this past month. He supposes that unlike the rest of the castle, she doesn’t know enough of his reputation to act otherwise.

“You dropped this in Ancient Runes,” Tom says, ignoring her question, holding out her Transfiguration scroll between them like some form of olive branch. Her brow puckers for a moment as she looks at the parchment, her hand wrapping delicately around the scroll so that she can insure their fingers don’t touch.

“Thank you,” she says, peeling it open as if checking for damages it might have suffered under his care. He wants to snicker because she is thanking him for returning what he stole, but Tom stows this thought.

“Care to explain magical sentience to me?” Tom queries. One of Florence’s eyebrows peeks, but she grins at him.

“You read my essay?”

“Clearly.”

“Hoping to find out something about my _land magic_.” Her voice is crude and derisive, but she is still smiling.

“Are the two topics related?” Tom’s head rolls to the other side, fingers on his left hand drumming on the armrest. She’s an open book on everything but this topic, and he wants to know why.

“It’s all related, Tom,” she whispers, his name like a promise on her lips, a shiver crawling its way down his spine.

“What are you reading?”

“Feeling inquisitive today?”

“Why are you so difficult,” he snaps, looking away from her smile that is so broad it could swallow him.

“Because I can be,” Florence replies with a shrug. “Here,” she adds, closing the tome in her lap and handing it to him. Tom takes it without comment, unsure of her change in heart but unwilling to pass up the opportunity to peer further into her life.

“Magical Symbols of the Iroquois?” Tom reads aloud, running a finger down the tired leather spine.

“Not what you expected?”

“I’m learning never to expect anything when it comes to you,” he admits. As anticipated, her face colors at his honesty, but she throws her caramel waves over her shoulder and meets his gaze.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I suppose.”

“If you’d like,” Tom inclines his head to her. She has a smattering of freckles across her cheekbones connected by a trail over the bridge of her nose, something he has never noticed until this moment.

“How about we make a deal,” Florence suggests, leaning forward and pulling a slip of paper out from her bag. “You help me decide what to do about _this_ ,” waving the parchment in the air, “and I’ll tell you one thing about the magic I was taught as a child.” Tom leans forward, extending his arm for the paper without a thought, the challenge igniting the ever present hunger in his chest.

It takes one glance to recognize the handwriting on the letter, one more to deduce the meaning. Setting the scroll onto the table, Tom fights the frown that threatens to mar his face, because _of course_ wealthy Florence Allman would get an invitation for simply existing as her father’s daughter.

“Professor Slughorn throws dinner parties every other month or so for the top students at Hogwarts. It’s a sort of club he operates, a lot of hand shaking and politicking.”

“I assume you have a standing invitation,” Florence replies, nodding as if he’s confirmed something to her. Tom attempts to suppress the warmth that floods through him as she stokes his ego, because yes, yes he does.

“Professor Slughorn does think highly of me.”

“So should I go? Who else is there?”

“They’re harmless really, a good excuse to rub shoulders with people with connections if that matters to you. Sacred twenty-eight kids, promising academics and athletes. Sometimes he brings speakers.” He lists some of the guests that have attended in the past, but he’s not thinking about them as he observes the person before him. Florence has started to frown, her eyes focused upon her hands knotted in her lap.

“Tom,” she interrupts, and _damn_ how does she make him feel like he’s floating just by saying his name? Her voice is slow, amber-like, low in her seriousness. “What _is_ the sacred twenty-eight?”

He doesn’t laugh. Tom can remember his own painful experience asking this exact question himself to Lestrange and Avery during his first year, their ridicule still so vivid that for a moment his vision flickers red. Before him Florence has crossed her arms as if warding off some attack, her feet tucked further underneath her in attempt to make herself small in her insecurity. He knows why she has asked him, not her housemates Greengrass or Burke.

“It is a list, a compilation of the twenty-eight elite pure-blood families in Britain. It’s not extensive, of course, but it’s a type of…social currency.” Tom lets his lip curl, lacing his fingers over his stomach.

“And you have to be a pure-blood?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sacred twenty-eight?” She asks, but she’s not mocking him Tom notes. It is only her ignorance, he tells himself, which he excuses.

“I am…affiliated.”

“Maternal lines,” she nearly spits, and Tom notes the fury, seemingly from nowhere, in her voice. It resonates with him, nestling amongst his own familial burdens. _Maternal lines indeed,_ he wants to agree, but no one can ever know just how disappointing Tom’s own mother was, not even Florence Allman who he suspects won’t care in the slightest the blood status of his parents. A moment later, she speaks again.

“Lizzie and Philip are part of the twenty-eight?” Tom wants to snort. Of course they wouldn’t have told her, just assuming that their American friend would already know about their innate prestige.

“They are.”

“What a _stupid_ thing to care about,” Florence declares. Tom feels his eyebrows raise, but he does not comment. Although he agrees fundamentally, Florence’s words seem like a particularly misidentified thing to say when she has all of the privilege of an old name and deep bank account.

“Is that not how America operates?”

“Well,” she blushes and Tom knows he has her. “Of course we have old families, but it’s not so rigid. You can always fall in or out of society with one action. I’m sure some of those families haven’t done anything truly important in decades.”

“And History is not worth honoring?”

“Of course it is,” she sighs, her face marring with another frown as she peers at him. “But if there is never room for change things grow stagnant. It’s important to have some form of mobility, for newcomers to leave their impact on society.”

“And America has this mobility?”

“More than y’all.” She snaps, and he can tell he’s hit a nerve. Tom grins.

“Temper, Allman.”

“Manners, _Riddle_.”

It’s back – the fluttering, electric current passing between the two of them. He can smell the coffee on her clothes, the setting sun turning her hair golden, and Tom feels more awake than he has in days. Why was talking to her so much more invigorating then their peers?

“So are you going to accept Slughorn’s invitation or not?”

“I suppose. I can’t imagine a reason not to,” she says, still frowning as she attempts to shake off her previous anger without much success. She’s staring at him, her mouth slightly open, and he’s overwhelmed by the desire to know what she is thinking. It is a desire foreign to him, one that makes him feel petulant and childish and he resents the moment it has entered his mind.

“If you’ve reached your decision then? I do believe we made a deal.” He prompts because no matter how much he doesn’t want to admit it, Tom needs to hear something about this magic she keeps going on about, a lifeline to merit the obsession she was slowly becoming, the hours of his day he was wasting to thinking of Florence Allman.

“You are persistent.”

“I’m many things, but I believe you suggested the deal.”

“And if you’re not satisfied by what I tell you?”

“I’ll inform you, should that occur.” Tom’s stomach is clenched so tight he wonders how he is still managing to breathe, watching as she bites her lip, blinks twice, and then sets her shoulders, some internal debate finished.

“My great-grandmother was Cherokee.” Florence is blushing, her face a deep red as her eyes flicker between his and the distant bookshelf. Each time her chestnut meet his midnight, Tom can feel a lurch in his chest, the pounding in his ears growing.

“I must confess, I’d hoped for more,” he encourages, but he does not smile.

“I know, I know.” She readjusts her chair so that she is facing him, their knees only centimeters apart. Tom has never been so aware of nearness to anyone before, unless it was for the sake of intimidation. “Adsila taught me so many things she learned from her people. The power of the lunar cycle, how to treat the land, her _language_. But she also taught me the correlation between magic and names.”

Tom can feel the pulse in his throat, his eyes cannot tear away from the pucker of her mouth as her teeth close over her bottom lip. Are these normal things to notice? The way one stray curl has caught the inside edge of her collar, disappearing under her shirt, melting into the brown of her skin.

“There is innate magic in names, this is known. But there is also magic in _giving_ names, in the gift of language and words and the correlation between the act and the words themselves.” Her hands have tightened around her armrests, her body concave as if she would prefer nothing more than to sink into the chair.

“I know it sounds mad, I don’t know how to explain it. Adsila was much better…”

“And this giving of names, does it matter what language is used?”

Florence’s head falls to the side in slow motion, time fracturing to a halt. It is mesmerizing, the energy between them reaching a crescendo, her hair like ribbons of silk that he has the inexplicable urge to _touch._

“I don’t know. I have only ever attempted it in Cherokee.”

Tom says nothing because he has nothing to say. _At least she isn’t boring_ he tells himself. The gnawing in his stomach is unbearable – he wonders if he peeled her open if words would come flying out, if he finally would be able to see this magic which is nothing like magic as he as ever understood it. He does not know if she is lying, he is terrified to ask because he so _desperately_ wants it to be true. For her to be interesting enough to necessitate his mania.

“Well say something,” Florence commands, and he recognizes his own tone in hers, one that is accustomed to having its way.

“What would you like me to say?”

She is not looking at him, something which makes him inexplicably angry. Tom leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees so that his face hangs over her legs, invading her personal aura so that she cannot choose to look anywhere but at him.

“Anything. You’re just staring.”

Tom grins, a real one that stretches across his face, exercising muscles that are rarely utilized.

“You are quite unexpected, Florence,” he hums, his voice dropping lower. And there is the telltale flush, the press of her jaw at his words which sends an oddly light feeling fluttering through his chest, as if Tom has somehow won something.

“I’ll take that as another compliment,” she whispers, her voice equally as slow.

Tom gets to his feet, tossing the textbook she had shown him onto the table with an echoing _thump_. Florence jumps, pressing her hand to her sternum, a hiss of breath escaping her lips and Tom again feels himself smiling, this time at her alarm, at his ability to offset her.

“Do make sure you practice your shield charms. Last week’s lesson was abysmal.” He’s walking away but it feels more like floating, like he has achieved some small victory. But he should not have celebrated so soon, his smile falling from his face as he hears his name sound from behind him.

“Tom,” Florence calls, and _fuck_ he wants to curse her for the way she says it, the things it does to his body which he cannot comprehend.

“Yes?”

“Were you satisfied?” Her words reach him like they are traveling through molasses, the tug of dusty rose lips into a smirk piercing him. She’s crossed her legs, leaning forward against one of the armrests, her eyes narrowed in what can only be a challenge because Tom had been a fool to think she would let him walk away with the upper hand. “With my information? Were you satisfied?” His mouth is dry, his hands fumbling for his pockets so that they have something to do. Not for the first time is he thankful for the mask that slips onto his face without thought or effort.

“Pacified, perhaps.” Tom shrugs and then disappears, but this time he is less certain whether or not he is leaving with the upper hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you enjoyed this latest installment! Thank you to all the kudos, I'm honestly surprised by the positive reaction I've gotten so far and I adore you all for it. I always love to know what you are thinking, even if it's just a quick "good chapter" - it means the world to me!!
> 
> Let me know and thanks for being here:)


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

“All extremes of feeling are allied with madness.”  
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“Riddle is staring at you,” Lizzie comments over a steaming cup of tea, glancing over Florence’s shoulder and across the Great Hall in the direction of the Slytherin table. Her summer blue eyes are all the Florence has to judge as she attempts to gage if they narrow, widen, or remain perfectly indifferent. It’s a hopeless cause. “He’s been staring at you since you sat down.”

“Probably wants to hex me as justice for all of the lessons he’s being forced to tutor me in. He’s like a dictator in those sessions, and it just gets worse because I’m not learning as fast as he’d like.” The words seem to burn a hole on her tongue as she admits them, but it’s true, and it’s better than admitting that Florence enjoys the attention, that more often than not over the past week, Riddle’s eyes _have_ been following her. Her entire body ached from the number of stunning spells he’d cast on her only a few days prior as Florence failed time and time again to properly cast a shield charm.

“And is that what you are discussing when you two bicker in the library?” Lizzie’s brows are raised, sheets of blonde hair rippling as an owl flies overhead. Florence blushes. So what if Tom seemed to be seeking her out in the library more and more often since their first encounter? They weren’t doing anything untoward, even if it felt like her body was slowly burning away every time he addressed her.

“He just makes for good debate, that’s all, Lizzie.” Florence tries to play it off, rolling her eyes and leaning back from the table.

“What do you debate?”

“School, lessons, Transfiguration mostly.”

“You’re terrible at Transfiguration,” Lizzie points out, her lip twitching into a smile as if she has just won a point.

“Radella has been helping me with my essays, and I’ve improved a lot since Dumbledore’s been tutoring me.” This time it is Lizzie who rolls her eyes.

“That Hufflepuff is completely out of her league in seventh year Transfiguration, and even if she wasn’t and even though you are getting extra lessons, I’ll be impressed when I see something. As of right now you sit in class and wave your wand and nothing happens.”

“Well obviously we are discussing magical _theory_ , since, as you have pointed out, I have yet to master any higher level Transfiguration.” Florence’s words grind from her lips. It is times like this that she despises Elizabeth’s British sensibilities the most.

“You should be careful with Riddle.”

“Why?”

“If you can’t figure that out, you’re more foolish than I thought,” Lizzie responds ambiguously, casting her eyes across the hall to where the teachers were seated instead of meeting Florence’s searching gaze. There is some truth to her warning, the flicker of Riddle’s eyes when he is furious, the seemingly at will mood swings, the seductive lilt of his voice which renders Florence’s limbs useless.

“Good morning, ladies,” Philips cheerful voice interrupts as he seats himself beside Lizzie. “What were you discussing?”

“Florence’s father has given her permission to come to my house for the Samhain celebration,” Lizzie covers smoothly. Philip beams.

“Excellent, you’ll love it, Florence.” Philip spears two sausages and sets them onto his plate while simultaneously tapping his goblet, the chalice filling with orange juice. “The Greengrass’s can throw a party – it may be all they can do, but…” He ducks as Elizabeth attempts to hit him atop the head.

“Who else will be there?” Florence asks, attempting to be nonchalant, but one steely glance from her friend tells her this attempt has failed.

“Hoping for someone specific?”

“All the usual people, aye?” Philip suggests, missing completely Elizabeth’s innuendo. “My family’s been going for ages. The Lestrange’s, the Avery’s, the Malfoy’s, maybe a few families from France. Prime Minister might come, right Lizzie? Riddle, maybe the Potters? Sacred twenty-eight and the notables.” He shrugs and returns to his food.

“Yes, it really is quite the invitation, so we will have to get you something appropriate to wear in Hogsmeade this weekend,” Lizzie says, her smirk forming into a full on grin. “I can’t have you embarrassing me.”

“And you’re sure you aren’t the one who will be embarrassing me?” Florence counters, but she cannot help but smile. “You’ve never seen me at a gala – you may just yet come to regret inviting an _American,_ Lizzie.”

“I think I already do.”

.

.

.

“You must not think of Western magic in the same vein that you think of your great-grandmothers,” Dumbledore informs her, sweeping across the grounds with surprising grace for someone his age. They have been attempting to perform an _Aguamenti_ spell, the Transfiguration of water from one place into the spicket that ran out of the end of the caster’s wand. To put it lightly, Florence had been struggling.

They were standing by the edge of the lake where any potentially misfired jets of water would not cause any undue damage, not that there had been anything to worry about thus far into the lesson. The sky was golden, the sun having already set behind the mountains, the surface of the black lake gleaming with the final vestiges of light. It might have been beautiful had Florence not been so frustrated.

“Why is this one so hard!” Florence groans after what feels like her one-thousandth failed attempt, her want pointing out over the lake without the telltale jet of water bursting out of the end.

“If I may,” Dumbledore intercedes, his customarily calm voice grating on every nerve within her body like the screams of a harpy. “You have traditionally associated elemental magic with the magic you were taught as a child, perhaps making spells such as this more difficult as you attempt to draw only from the magical reserves _within_ you.” It is, of course, a sound suggestion, but Florence is already well aware of her own proclivities.

“ _And_ it’s a full moon tonight,” she snaps, as if it is Dumbledore’s fault that the rotations of the planets have resulted in a tutoring lesson on one of the days when she is most connected to her great-grandmother’s magic. She can feel the prickling across her skin, the familiar tingle of other wills almost pushing against her being.

“Curious. What said your great-grandmother on the stages of the moon on native magics?”

“The moon and sun have their own spirits, just like all other elements, just like language and names,” Florence hisses, frustrated not in his asking – because Dumbledore she inherently knows is the only person she can freely entrust this information – but with her own incompetence. “Their magics can be harvested, but the moon is more powerful – it is closer to Earth. On the full moon, the lunar spirit enhances all other magic.”

“Perhaps it would be to your benefit to attempt some of Adsila’s teachings, to once again familiarize yourself with the feeling before returning to our intended spell for the evening?

Time seems to freeze for a moment as his words reach her, and then she moves. Without a thought she tosses her wand into the grass beside her, arms stretching out, palms facing the sky as if the air is a burden she must carry because hasn’t she been waiting for this since arriving at Hogwarts? A chance to showcase what she is capable of? To prove that she is not as incompetent as they think her? Florence feels alive, already each lick of wind across her skin sending hairs standing up across her body, every beat of her heart a rhythm she must keep. _This_ is magic, this is release. When she speaks, she forgets Dumbledore, Hogwarts, the cloistered, rigid excuse for European witchcraft. The words come easy to her, rolling off her tongue as Adsila taught her when she was just old enough to walk, the Cherokee language like breathing itself, innate and divine and essential.

_“Moon spirit, light giver I name you, secret of the night, the come-and-go spirit who watches over us with full face then half face then blank face. Hear me now,”_ Florence calls, and she can feel the effects immediately, the energy around her, the pressure along her spine, congealing like a current in her gut. It is like coming home and being set free all at once, and she knows whatever small magic she has been planning is not enough for this reunion with the spirits of old.

“ _Spirit of the water, I call to you, I name you life bringer, fury wrought, the all-knowing way of the river and the creek and the stream to the sea. I name you current and eddy and the smoothest river stone, the patter of rain, cleansing.”_ Florence’s eyes have closed of their own volition, her hands raised above her, body swaying alongside the beating in her chest, the dance of her feet across the grass. Every corner of the body is awake, her soul vibrating as the magic within her meets and melds with the magics she calls upon. The surge of power is consuming, sugary across her tongue, the light headed feeling of oxygen deprivation to the brain. _“Water spirit, that force eternal, passing of time incarnate, give me rain!”_

There is a clap of thunder that shakes the very ground they are standing upon, and when Florence opens her eyes, she sees that the sky is no longer yellow but a deep slate gray. Wind whips about them, drawing the clouds in from near and far. She grins, feeling tendrils of her hair slide across her skin, the intangible electricity of _magic_ that hums in the air. In this moment she is more, more than a student or a woman or a witch, the power of the sun and stars and wind and rain are as fundamental to her as to breathe.

“ _Air spirit, rock shaper and breath of life I name you. Dust in the wind and wind upon the seas, bring me the rain.”_

Thunder crackles again, and with a roar and a soaring lurch in her stomach that thrashes its way down her limbs as the magic around her surges through every fiber of her being, sheets of water fall from the sky, drenching herself and Dumbledore in the cool, torrential downpour. Florence’s hands fall to her side, exhausted, the magic that still ripples across her skin plucking at the magic within her, seeking direction, a next action.

“Now try again,” Dumbledore’s voice sounds, and looking over her shoulder, he too is standing in the rain, Florence’s own wand held out to her. There is a gleam in his eye, a savage smile crossing his wrinkled face which she is certain matches her own. Taking her wand, there is no question this time whether she will succeed. She has just harnessed the elements, what is this menial spell to deter her?

She can feel the spark in the very molecules around her, but now too she can feel the swirl of her own magic, it’s separateness. With a quick upward brush of her arm, she whispers the word, almost silent under the clap of thunder and the inundation of rain, and with a rush a tendril of that magic sears through her arm, a blast of heat from her body down through her hand to her wand, and her grin, if possible, grows wider. There is a stream of water gushing from the piece of wood, falling to the Earth to mingle with the steady pounding of the rain. She has done it.

“Excellent work, Florence,” Dumbledore shouts so that he can be heard over the shower. She has summoned a deluge, a rain that will flood the banks of the lake and send tremors across the land, and yet Dumbledore is complimenting her on the tiny spicket of water she has summoned. Florence stymies the flow of magic to her wand and turns to face him, wiping away the hair that is plastered to her face, drawing her cloak around her for a modicum of warmth despite its soaked nature. The effort has exhausted her, but the soaring in her chest is proof enough that it was worth it. “It seems biased to reward you for work done outside of the classroom, but I believe thanks are in order for watering the lawn – twenty points to Ravenclaw, then.” Through the blur of raindrops she can see he is still smiling, and stowing her wand in her pocket, she follows him up the slope and into the Entrance Hall, her skin still alive with the sensations of magic all around her, with the cleansing of the rain. The Great Spirit is with her – he has journeyed across the ocean conquering time and space for those who remember him.

.

.

.

Her muscles are shaking, arms like lead as she presses her heels into the floor and attempts to hold up the shield charm which is currently flickering before her, only a thin silver wall between herself and jet of blue flames that threatens to swallow her. They have been going at it for over an hour, Riddle sending bursts of fire or stunners or a variety of other hexes in Florence’s direction at any moment, breaking the conversations he initiates between each round with nothing more than a flick of his wrist as a warning before she must cast _protego_ or else be struck. Already she has several burns as a result of her slow reflexes, the two aching points on her chest where a stunning spell caught her make it difficult for her to breathe.

At last he lets up and Florence allows her shield to drop, crumpling into the desk nearest her and letting her wand clatter onto the floor. She is exhausted, and resting her forehead on her arms, she misses the crease that flashes across Tom Riddles face as he approaches, the frown that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Why are you so tired? Even you aren’t usually this incompetent.” Tom insults her like he is discussing the prophet, his voice crisp and ominous and somehow still managing to resonate within her fatigued frame. Florence peels her head away from the desk so that she can meet his gaze, surprised to find him looming above her, not standing where she’d last seen him across the room. She wants to tell him that only a few days ago she summoned the storm that rocked the very foundations of the castle, that caused the downpour in the middle of the Great Hall, but she decides against it. He still hadn’t stopped pestering her for examples of her magic, and a claim like that might drive him mad. And she is tired – she’d forgotten how draining an act like that could be. Foolish really.

“Are you always so charming?” Florence sighs, smiling at him despite the tremble in her limbs. It offsets him and she relishes the flash in his eyes, the smallest hint of color in his cheeks.

“Are you always so frustrating?”

“Yes,” Florence says, getting to her feet so that he can’t lean in, crowd her space, distract her with his distinctly _clean_ scent, like everything he wears including himself has just returned from the laundry.

“We have been practicing this spell for three weeks, you should be farther along.”

“And have you ever stopped to consider that I _am_ farther along? That you are considerably more powerful than I am, that you have spent the better part of this evening attacking me without warning, and that I, with no prior training until this year, have managed to block the majority of those attacks?”

The blank look on his face melts into a smirk as she compliments him, his wand, which he had been twirling between his fingers, stilling.

“All the same, you should be farther along,” he informs her, but his smirk never fades.

As he turns to face the classroom, Florence allows herself to admire his form as, with a gentle flick of his wand, the desks around him soar into the air and settle themselves once more into neat columns. Tom has rolled his sleeves to the elbow, revealing more of his porcelain skin that Florence has ever seen before, the removal of his robes, which he discarded at the beginning of the lesson, illuminating the way his trousers sat low across his hips. It had been extremely distracting when they began, probably explaining why the first stunner had hit her with such ease.

Watching him do magic, if possible, was even more distracting. Silent, steely, like some ancient sorcerer of old, she could _feel_ the pulse of his magic, his power so raw that it actually emitted from his body as he cast. Each movement was decisive, like a conductor leading an orchestra of thousands, each twist and brush a language within itself. When he turns back to face her, the glass profile of his face catches light from the window. It’s appalling how beautiful he is.

“Are you going to tell me what you and Dumbledore were doing in the rain that evening?” Tom asks, his voice rumbling as he comes to stand before her again, perhaps half a foot too close to be considered entirely proper. This is the second time he’s asked her, the first occurring when she refused to tell him as he cornered her in the library yesterday during free period. He’d been in the Entrance Hall as she and Dumbledore had reappeared, been witness to the drying charm their professor cast on Florence before disappearing with a flash of purple robes. She’d seen the way his midnight eyes darkened, his jaw tensed, hands curled into fists as if he wanted to rip her limb from limb. If she had not already been weak from her control of weather, Florence knew she probably would have whimpered at the sudden flash of heat that overcame her, falling to her knees right there on the red carpet of the Front Hall.

“No, I don’t think so,” she jockeys, forming her own smirk to match his own. Florence cannot remember when their conversations passed into this border between interrogation and, unless mistaken, _flirting_ , but it feels like second nature, like it was always meant to be this way. Standing before him, she again suppresses that inane desire to crawl under his skin and nestle there.

“Oh, but I can show you this!” Florence exclaims because summoning the rain was not her only accomplishment of Monday night, yet in her exhaustion she’d forgotten until now. Spinning, she skipped through the desks to the window and unlatched it, throwing it open so that cool trickles of night air seep into the room. Turning over her shoulder, she sees Tom weaving his way behind her, a strange expression on his face, as if she is some puzzle he’s yet to solve. Florence ignores the fluttering in her chest for what feels like the hundredth time.

“ _Aguamenti_ ,” she whispers, and a beam of water pours from the end of her wand straight out of the window. It’s the first time she has attempted it since her first success, and there is a trickle of pride that slips down her throat, a smugness that cannot be wiped away.

Tom steps up beside her, encroaching into her peripheral vision, and suddenly he is so close she can feel the warmth radiating off of him, count the buttons on his shirt. With a deep breath, she ends the spell because all at once breathing has become very difficult, sandwiched between the wall and the statue-like figure of Tom Riddle.

“You would make an excellent second year, Florence,” He murmurs, his head leaning forward slightly as if for the sole purpose of intercepting her gaze. Florence gives it to him, because if she is honest with herself, at this moment there is nowhere else she would rather look than at Tom Riddle. She is not disappointed – his façade sharp and contrasting, light and dark, hypnotizing down to the last freckle.

“I really struggled with that one,” she admits, too overcome to be embarrassed. “But I got it in the end.”

“I imagine there are many things you can accomplish once you set your mind upon it.” It is a rare compliment, one that fills Florence from her toes to the tip of her skull with an oozing warmth. She stares at the edge of his jaw because she is certain that if she looks him in the eye, she will do something foolish. To her complete and utter horror, Tom smiles, not one of his sickly smirks he offers to professors or the hoard of Slytherins that follow him around, but a brilliant, all-encompassing grin that splits his face.

“Feeling generous?”

“I don’t believe in false praise, Florence.”

He’s still smiling at her and _damn_ why does it make her heart want to slip between her ribs and down onto the floor between them?

“In that case, thank you,” she breathes.

When Tom steps away, it is like a cloud of steam releases, the iron in her chest expanding to allow air back into her lungs. Shakily Florence reaches for her bag, pulling out the Dittany Concentrate and applying it to a few of her burns before grabbing her robes and slipping them on over her starched button down and skirt. Tom is watching her as she moves, his mask once more upon his face, no trace of emotion to hint that he is a living, breathing human. Florence feels a dribble of something along the back of her neck, the irrational, girly worry that maybe he had not felt the current between them only moments before, that the pull was one sided and of her own making as she observes the straightness of his jaw, any trace of a smile vanished. Tom is making his way towards the door before she can stomach the hurt.

“I want you to practice disarming _and_ stunning spells this week,” he instructs, his voice like steel, taught and brittle. Florence again feels the urge to slap him, retribution for the games he plays with her, for his control, for his ability to be so _unaffected_.

“Think I’m improving?” His hand stills on the doorframe as he turns to face her.

“I have already told you I do not believe in false praise,” he repeats, cool and distant and nothing like the man he was mere moments before. Her heart shudders and she hates herself for it, for the way he can rile her emotions. “As for two spells? These lessons are a burden and I’m growing _bored._ ”

The door closes with a _click_ behind him.

.

.

.

It is one of the first truly cold days since Florence has been at Hogwarts, the wind cutting, the air seeming to pull heat straight from her throat. Tucking herself further into her coat, Florence adjusts the fur-lined hood to better insulate her ears. It has only every been this cold in Georgia on occasion at the heart of winter, but it’s only October here.

“Gladrags is just around the corner,” Lizzie explains, pointing a delicate finger towards a deep crimson storefront where mannequins are spinning and throwing fistfuls of confetti. “We can get you something for Samhain in there and then go to the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer.”

“What color are you wearing?” Florence asks, peering at her friend. The wind has worked wonders on Lizzie’s face, the splash of pink across her cheekbones highlighting the very summer blue of her eyes. Florence wonders if she knows that she is pretty, or if Lizzie is too above caring because to do so would be so completely _common_. With a smile to herself, she follows the other Ravenclaw through the door and into the lowly lit shop.

“I’m telling you only because I’d be horrified if we wore the same color, but it’s a nice garnet color.”

“Good, I look terrible in dark reds,” Florence says, wrinkling her nose just to see the scowl that crosses Lizzie’s face.

“How do you feel about purple?” Lizzie asks, running her fingers along the hangers with such confidence that even Florence, who knows her way around a shop, feels momentarily abashed. Spectre has one store for the latest in ladies fashion, but more often than not Florence’s mother employs a seamstress from New York who floos in for custom fittings, therefore negating any need to leave the home. It is affluence of one kind, but the rarity of storefront shopping makes it feel like an extravagance, and Florence finds she cannot stop smiling.

“Hate it.”

“Alright, well what do you prefer?”

“ _This_ ,” Florence says, her eyes full of nothing but the dress she now held up for Lizzie’s inspection. If her counterparts grin was anything to judge, it was perfect.

“I know a certain someone who won’t be able to keep his eyes off of you in that,” Lizzie prods.

“You’re sinful, did you know that?”

But Florence has to bite the inside of her cheek as the seamstress pins and adjusts the dress assuring her all the while that it will be finished within the next week, because she already knows how his eyes will darken into inky blackness when he sees her, and is it so _wrong_ that she wants it?

If it is, she doesn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you so much for all of the Kudos, bookmarks, and comments! I've been going through a tough time this month, and writing this and seeing your responses has been one of the only things helping to keep my mental health up these days. I cannot say how much I appreciate it.
> 
> Tom and Florence are so crazy for each other and its SO fun to write. Hehe hope y'all are enjoying as much as I am!!


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

“I do not think, sir, you have any right to command me, merely because you are older than I, or because you have seen more of the world than I have; your claim to superiority depends on the use you have made of your time and experience.”  
― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

How Lizzie has managed to drape Florence’s mundane, fawny waves into a sea of curls that framed her face, she will never understand, but spinning before the mirror in the seventh year girls bathroom, Florence can admit that she looks pretty, beautiful even. The dress code of Hogwarts had come with some pushback when she had originally beheld the rigid white shirt and calf length skirt to be worn at all times, yet time had softened her to their appearance until at last the ease of the two items melted her completely. Standing in front of the mirror, however, the swirl of auburn fabrics around her body, she recalls with relish the joys of carving out the very best of your figure until you shone. She is every shade of orange and russet and brown, glowing under the light like burnished bronze, like autumn incarnate.

“You’ll do, I suppose,” Lizzie teases, straightening the sash she has secured at the middle of Florence’s back. “But don’t wear that mirror out staring so much. Someone might think you’re vain.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Florence chides, glancing over her shoulder where Elizabeth is now adjusting a smear of lip balm. Her black, tea-length gown falls in careful waves, an impossibly miniscule waist, cheekbones sharp enough to cut through flesh. Lizzie looks like something straight out of a catalogue, a once in a lifetime arrangement of genes so perfect Florence wonders how it is men do not fall at her feet. Lizzie would destroy them.

“Don’t be jealous, dear,” Lizzie concludes before stowing her hawthorn wand down a hidden pocket at her hip. Florence’s own wand is concealed up her sleeve with a disillusionment charm performed by a begrudging Elizabeth. “Shall we? Philip will be waiting.”

Philip has managed to brush his sandy hair into submission, his black dress robes sharpening his form so that he appears older, more serious. When the two ladies appear at the base of the stairs like two sides of an eclipse – wreathed in shadow, bathing in light – Florence’s bronze and autumn to Lizzie’s smoke and ice – his foolish smile even manages to make Elizabeth’s stately cheekbones turn rosy.

“Wait until Avery gets a load of you, aye, Greengrass?” His voice carries across the common room, causing several Ravenclaws who were subjugated to studying on this Saturday evening post-Hogsmeade to glare. _Avery?_ Florence wants to ask, but the cool look that Lizzie is giving their companion dries the words upon her tongue.

“Don’t be crude, Philip.”

“You look lovely as well, Allman,” Philip says, changing course so that his brown eyes can crinkle in her direction. Florence gives him a smile in return, reaching up and adjusting his collar, flattening her hand across his shoulders as if he was Owen or Albion. The thought twists her stomach into a knot, with a wince she looks away.

“Let’s get on with it, Sluggy won’t want us to be late.”

Lizzie takes Philip’s arm like it is her own property, looping their elbows together, leaving Florence to bring up the rear. Her hands wander absent mindedly over her dress, pressing into her diaphragm like she is forcing herself to breathe. Before her Lizzie and Philip cut a dashing pair, slender and bleached, murmuring under their breathe into each other’s ears like there is no one else in the hallway with them.

Slughorn’s office is located on the first floor where students have often and loudly theorized that this placement is for easy access to the Great Hall without the hindrance of stairs, although it does mean a long walk from the Ravenclaw common room. By the time they arrive, there is a gathering of around ten students outside the door, each in either jewel tone tea-dresses or simple, crisp dress robes. To her annoyance and incessantly beating heart, Florence’s gaze is upon Tom before she can even register she is looking for him. 

Why, at this point, she bothers to breathe when around him she does not know, her lungs failing time after time to suck any form of oxygen in through her lips. His pale skin like moonbeams, chocolate hair black at last against the sharp lines of his dress robes, and when he turns to look at her, she knows she is in Hell because no one should be able to control the very thundering in her chest or the sounds around her with only the darkening of his eyes. Tom does not smile at her when he sees her, to do so would be beneath him, yet in that brief moment as their eyes meet everything around them is inconsequential. Her heart is rattling within her ribcage at such a velocity it may burst – Florence does not know if she despises the pain or relishes it.

“Florence!” Philip stands before her, his brown eyes replacing midnight, his face too comfortable in a smile to be striking. “There are some people you should meet.”

He leads her over to the gathering of which Riddle is apart, but Florence keeps her eyes firmly trained upon Philip’s freckles, aware of the burning sensation across her cheeks, that her breathing is still erratic.

“Pyrrhus Avery, this is Florence Allman,” Philip nods to the lumbering blonde wizard. Florence smiles in his direction, the Slytherin’s wicked grin the only warning she has before he swoops in across the circle and presses a kiss to both cheeks, his hand snaking around her waist for a brief moment as his lips dust her skin. 

“Pleasure,” he purrs, and then he has distanced himself once more, the self-satisfied smirk so reminiscent of Albion that she swallows and does not answer. Her skin in warm where the pads of his fingers dug into her waist, her cheeks still tingling from his attack. Beside him, Riddle is frozen, etched from stone.

“You know Riddle,” Philip continues as if Avery’s welcome was as common as the rain. “And this is Leonidas Lestrange.” This boy is shorter, more stocky, his brown hair a mess of curls and eyes slightly hooded with boredom. He holds out his hand which Florence places her own into as she was taught to when a child, the Lestrange boy stooping to press his mouth momentarily to her knuckles. The motion is practiced and careless and over before it began, the group moving on and Florence slipping her hand out of Lestrange’s slightly damp grasp.

“Everard Nott,” Philip nods to the last boy – willowy and plain – who repeats the tradition of kissing Florence’s hand. “And Teresa Prewett and Druella Shafiq.” The girls merely incline their heads, face’s resolutely still, as if smiling might be beneath them.

“You’re from America?” Avery asks, clearly the most forward of the group. Florence wraps her arm through Philip’s before responding. She has known people like this all her life, rich, pompous, affluent children much like herself, and there is a cleansing sense of relief that this dinner party will be one and the same, that she will not be in over her head.

“I’m afraid so.”

“What brings you to Hogwarts?” One of the girls – Druella maybe – jeers, clearly dismissive of the Americas let alone the people from them. She has thin, taupe hair that hangs limply beside her face, and for a moment Florence pities her. It is hard to be an unattractive girl under any circumstances, yet harder still in an prosperous family in which all daughters will be promised off like breeding cattle. It is the firmness in her gaze, however, which turns Florence’s head. She smirks.

“Well, my father owns a plantation, you see. And I just had to see if the English soil was everything it is claimed to be. If it was – what is it you say, Philip?” She asks conversationally, turning to peer into the naïve face of the boy beside her. “Up to _snuff_?”

To her right, Lizzie muffles a snort.

“And how are you finding our soil?” Avery asks, the sinful grin upon his face expanding until it has eaten half of his face.

“Oh, _illuminating_ ,” she replies, at last allowing her eyes to travel to the prince-like statue beside Avery. Meeting Tom’s gaze is like a cool drink of water, the flash in his eyes the only affirmation she thinks she will ever need. Her hand tightens around Philips arm.

The door to Slughorn’s office swings open at that precise moment, their Professor’s massive girth outlined in the doorway.

“Come in, come in!” He booms, the tinge in his cheeks and echo of his voice suggesting that perhaps Slughorn has already made his way into the wine for the evening. Lizzie takes Avery’s outstretched arm after only a moment’s pause, rolling her eyes visibly at his shit-eating leer, and they all proceed forward into the room.

It is a wide, octagonal room with pale green draping’s in every corner, a fire crackling in the hearth. Several house elves stand just inside the door with platters of champagne, one of which Florence accepts, a cellist playing in a far corner. There is a fully prepared table where she assumes they will sit later for their meal, but Slughorn leads them over to the mantle, his stomach wobbling with each step. The door closes behind them, students milling about in small groups of three or four when Slughorn appears over Florence’s shoulder. Philip, as if suddenly mist and smoke, melts away.

“Miss Allman,” he roars, his mustache practically dancing upon his upper lip. Florence smiles because she’s known men like him all her life, a spider who’s web is social currency, currying favors and catching flies from all areas. He is harmless, and she will let him think he has her. When she returns to America, he will be nothing more than an afterthought. “So tickled you could join our little gathering. When I heard that Clifford Allman’s daughter was going to be attending Hogwarts this year, I just knew I would have to get acquainted!”

“Do you know my father sir?”

“Worked with him on several occasions! We collected our Potions Mastery the same summer many years back – always a daft hand at antidotes, which of course with your relation to Dittany is understandable.” Slughorn’s news is some surprise to Florence, but it explains his familiarity, and she cannot deny the swell of pride within her as he compliments her father.

“Have you had a chance to visit with him since his return to England?” She asks. Her father had not mentioned at any point having an associate who was employed at Hogwarts, but her father was much more the reserved type. It would be a stretch to imagine that Slughorn and Clifford had been close, even years prior.

“No, he’s evasive your father. Likes to spend his time at home, but I’ve sent him an invitation to my Christmas party and I do hope you can encourage him to join us,” he informs her, tapping the side of his nose before taking a long sip from his champagne.

“And ho! Tom m’boy,” Slughorn cries, looking up from Florence’s plaster smile to see the figure who had been hovering like a statue just off Florence’s shoulder. The Professor claps a meaty hand down onto Tom’s shoulder, dragging him beside Florence where he can ensnare both of them. She observes his face, the smile that Tom is giving the Potions master divine but dying before it can reach his eyes. Up close, he is like every fantasy brought to life, dark and brooding and yet radiant, capturing your gaze until you no longer know your name. Florence cannot look away.

“You know Tom, Florence?” Slughorn asks fondly, his gaze too fixed upon the Head Boy.

“Yes sir, I have the _honor_ of having Tom in several of my classes.”

Riddle smirks at her because even in front of Slughorn she cannot resist the urge to rile him, to distort the mask that he wears.

“Good fortune then! Tom is our _most_ promising student, I fully expect him to be Minister for Magic before he’s even forty.”

Florence does not comment on this, holding her smirk in place as a response. She cannot picture Tom in a Ministry position, his ability to cast flames the size of an elephant in her direction without any form of internal moral debate seems the anthesis of any governing body’s quest for magical control, but she cannot deny that his magic is remarkable.

“Professor Slughorn has always thought very highly of me, too highly if I may.” His voice rumbles between them, forcing Florence to clench her abdomen and prevent herself from leaning in towards her classmate.

“Nonsense.” Slughorn finishes his drink with another gulp before pointing a large, beefy finger at Tom who is still smiling with all the falseness of a viper. “This young man saved the entire castle only two years ago, has he told you?”

Florence feels her eyebrows shooting up her forehead, the storm in Riddle’s gaze seemingly at odds with the praise he was receiving.

“No, Professor. He hasn’t.”

“Always humble,” Slughorn chuckles. Florence again stays silent because there is nothing _humble_ about the domineering voice Tom uses in their lessons, in the way he demands information from Florence at his every whim. “Two years ago the Chamber of Secrets was opened, one student _died_. Dreadful business,” Slughorn is beaming as if discussing the weather, not the death of a child. She feels a slip of ice down her back. “Tom caught the perpetrator – saved Hogwarts from shutting down.”

“Just doing my duty, Professor.” He says stiffly. There is no warmth in his gaze, the midnight in his eyes cool and distant, like he would prefer nothing more than to walk away from the conversation. As if someone had heard his wish, there is a clatter behind them and Slughorn dances off, surprisingly light on his feet for a man his size, to assess the damage of a fallen platter and a rather abashed looking Pyrrhus Avery. Florence turns to face Riddle only to find him already staring at her.

“Don’t ask me to call you the savior of the school. I already take beatings from you once a week, my pride couldn’t bear it,” she offers, anything to take her mind off the current of delicious heat passing from his frame to hers, the giddy feeling that makes her want to run a hand through his curls, a finger along the edge of his jaw. Is his skin as soft as it appears? Would she cut her skin on the sharpness of his cheekbones?

“I have already asked you to call me Tom,” he reminds her. “Savior of the school seems a mouthful in comparison.”

“Yes, an honor that apparently only Professor Slughorn and I hold,” she mutters, glancing across the room to where Slughorn is repairing the broken glasses with a wave of his wand. She has noticed – it takes no great perception too – that no one calls the Head Boy by his first name. She cannot fathom why she has been made an exception, but the knowledge makes her ribcage expand at an alarming rate.

It is the first time she has been near him since his cold departure at the conclusion of their tutoring session. His face is inscrutable, but there is none of the heaviness in his gaze. In fact, there is a gentle dusting of rose across his cheeks as the corner of his lip twitches in a suppressed smile, although it is a warm room Florence reminds herself. This assurance fades immediately, however, when his gaze drags up and down her form, navy eyes hugging Florence’s every curve, caressing her skin until she thinks she might implode. Florence has had attention from boys all her life, but there is a hunger in Tom’s gaze, a desperation in the way his eyes follow hers that makes her lightheaded with power because Tom Riddle is anything but a boy and _she_ is the focus of his attention.

“Slughorn is a prat,” he murmurs quietly when his eyes at last return to Florence’s, dismissing their professor with the easy confidence of someone who has never suffered fools.

“Agreed, but I’m hurt to think you never thought to mention this tale to me all the times you attempted to badger me for _my_ family secrets.” She takes a long sip from her flute, savoring the bubbles which rupture across her tongue and the accompanying tightening in Tom’s eyes.

“Be careful what you wish for, Florence.” Her hand tightens around her glass as he leans his face closer. “You may find that the story is not as pleasant as you wish.”

“I’m well aware. Slughorn did say a girl died.”

Tom smirks at her words, as if she has somehow complimented him.

“Yes, Myrtle Warren. She was a mudblood,” his voice is like icebergs cracking and snapping as they collide. “Inconsequential in the end.”

There is that word again. _Inconsequential._ Tom has used it before, only once when discussing his deceased parents, and now again to describe a girl that he had supposedly known. A girl who had died, here in Hogwarts, and who Riddle could discard because she was a muggle born. There is a coldness in her chest now that is at odds with the warmth in the room, her proximity to Riddle, the precise, clean smell of his figure which she has come to associate with him. Florence cannot comprehend this part of Tom – dismissive of life as if it was nothing more than a commodity – so at odds from the hypnotizing young man who wants to debate Transfiguration theory. _Or put you under a stunning spell_ a nasty voice at the back of her mind tones.

Florence wonders why she has never seen this side of Tom before. Why he is showing her now. Why she still thinks he is beautiful even when he talks about dead classmates like they were nothing more than an assemblage of limbs, not a living, thinking person. Perhaps she has been poisoned.

“I’m sure all of your sacred twenty-eight friends think so too,” she hisses, ripping her eyes away from him to glance at Lizzie who is deep in conversation with Leonidas and Teresa, recalling Philip and Elizabeth’s easy confirmation that all of the old pure-blood families joined Slytherin. Their easy companionship with those assembled now confirming the in-group mentality that seemed to abound in British society.

“Is something bothering you, Florence?”

“No,” she mutters, returning her gaze to his. She can feel her anger stirring inside her, the flaming of her magic and she knows she’s going to say something. She has never been able to hold her tongue. “Just horribly disappointed that your opinions of people are so _limited._ ”

In all of the times she has attempted to get under his skin, to drive him into reacting, he has never been like this. Tom’s face fractures, rippling with a fury so enormous that Florence pulls away. His features are grotesque, bolts of his magic clawing across her skin, leaving an unpleasant burning sensation in their wake. Midnight eyes that she can know at any distance have faded to crimson, mouth pressed in a line so thin his lips are white.

“ _Limited?_ ” he hisses, and this time the thunder in his voice does nothing to warm Florence.

“Just so.”

She walks away before he can say anything else, unable to bear the mutilation of his features, downing her drink in a hasty gulp to calm the racing in her heart, the pounding in her skull. Florence doesn’t want to know what other hideous thoughts he is hiding in his brain, if she doesn’t know she cannot be guilty for the strange ache under her ribs as she turns her back on him and scans the room, the all-consuming urge to turn right back around and face him.

She spots a familiar head of dark curls and set of emerald eyes just as Slughorn calls for dinner to begin. In the scramble for seats, Florence snags Radella’s wrist and pulls her into the chair beside her. Thankfully Philip chooses to enter into the empty seat on her right, securely blocking Florence in.

“I didn’t know you were invited!” Radella gushes, the delicate features of her face illuminating with happy surprise. Florence releases a breath – her heart still racing after the prior interaction – before she is able to offer a grin in return.

“Yes, I got my letter a few weeks ago. Are you a regular at these things?”

“I wasn’t until Slughorn saw me transfigure Sherman Wallaby’s trunk into a horse in the Entrance Hall this term. He thought it was so funny he invited me on the spot.” The Hufflepuff smiles brightly at Florence who feels an inkling of jealousy that Radella had somehow earned her position of honor here, that she hadn’t needed a family name to be seated at this table of exceptional students.

“How much would I have to pay you to transfigure this table into a horse right now,” Florence whispers darkly, noticing to some dismay that Tom has seated himself directly across from Florence so that she will either have to look upon him or actively avoid him.

“These dinners really aren’t so bad,” Radella insists, misinterpreting Florence’s tone and presenting an even wider smile. “The food is always delicious. I suspect Slughorn has an in with the house elves in the Kitchens.”

The meal _is_ delicious. Roasted duck breast and honied potatoes and mountains of baked carrots and asparagus. Between each course house elves refill their goblets of water and wine, a blessing to Florence who can _feel_ his gaze even as she talks pointedly with Radella or Philip, her head turning anywhere but directly before her because she’s still so _angry._ Angry that he could think that way, angry that she couldn’t see it, and angry that it didn’t seem to matter because Tom Riddle in dress robes was an image that had addled her brains. Each glass of wine makes it easier to bear, the burning liquid clouding her brain until she no longer has to think about him. _Inconsequential._ The word is carved into her skin.

It happens during dessert. Florence’s head has started to swim, her stomach bursting from the meal she has just inhaled. Beside her Philip and a sixth year Gryffindor she does not know are laughing about Quidditch, their ringing voices grating against her eardrums. Around them elves are pushing large ice cream floats before each guest when several things occur at once.

There is a _crash_ that pierces the room, conversation ending in an abrupt halt as every head in the room whips about to face Radella, the resulting surge of adrenaline sharpening her mind slightly. Florence notes ice cream dripping down the front of her friend’s dress, the ooze of a dark crimson liquid from cuts across Radella’s face and chest and hands. She is biting her lip, delicate features clearly convulsing in an attempt not to cry.

“Oh dear, Miss Gilford,” Slughorn says, rather astonished, his cherry red face paling slightly at the vision of embarrassment before him. Florence wishes in that moment she was more proficient in hexes, that she could glue his tongue to the top of his mouth or singe of only half of his mustache for the look he casts at Radella.

“It’s okay, honey,” Florence murmurs, pulling her napkin from her lap and reaching out to dab at the cut running across her cheek. Radella’s eyes close and she inhales sharply through her nose, as if the kindness is only further pushing her to tears. Florence can feel her limbs shaking, because beyond the alcohol inhabiting her veins, she can feel the residue of magic in the air, because she knows it was not a mistake, that someone _did_ this to Radella. She presses one hand to the back of Radella’s neck, pressing more firmly against her cheek to stop the flow of blood.

“It’s okay, sugar,” her voice is crooning, like Radella is no more than a foal. “Wanna go to the bathroom and get cleaned up?”

The nod Radella gives is pitiful, her eyes resolutely closed.

“I’m going to take Radella to the restroom,” she announces loudly, training her eyes upon their Professor. Slughorn is nodding profusely as if his head might pop off his shoulders. “Please don’t wait on us, I wouldn’t want to spoil dessert.” The words drip like acid from her lips, her fingers itch for her wand, her tongue to chant for lighting and moon spirits and fanged creatures of the night to haunt whoever harmed the slight girl beside her.

“Of course, thank you Miss Allman,” Slughorn splutters.

Florence takes one of Radella’s hands in her own, feeling the quivering in her very fingers as Florence tightens her grip on the other girl, pulling her to her feet. She leads Radella to the door, silence still echoing as every set of eyes follows their progress.

There are images that burn resolutely into your brain, that can be recalled in such crystalline clarity that not even the passing of time can destroy their effect. Turning to face the room as she closes the door, Florence scans the table one last time, her eyes meeting each person’s in turn to record a memory she will never forget. Slughorn, to his credit, looks flummoxed, perhaps too intoxicated to be sentient. Philip is pale, Lizzie has continued eating as if nothing has happened.

But it is those farthest from her that grind her teeth to dust. The matching smirks that are now being shared between Nott, Avery, and Lestrange. The look of pure vindication carved into Tom’s every feature, his midnight eyes at last meeting hers.

How could she have ever found him beautiful?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finished writing through the end of Chapter 15 so still chugging along ahead of you readers. I've never been able to write/update so quickly, I'm a bit in awe of myself if I'm being completely honest. Thank you as always for the lovely responses. I do love hearing what you think so if you have time for a quick comment, even if it's to say that my writing is trash, I always appreciate the feedback.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

“You know the greatest lesson of history? It’s that history is whatever the victors say it is. That’s the lesson. Whoever wins, that’s who decides the history. We act in our own self-interest. Of course we do. Name me a person or a nation who does not. The trick is figuring out where your interests are.”  
― Anthony Doerr, All the Light We Cannot See

“You didn’t have to come with me,” Radella murmurs, running her hands under the faucet, the water running an unpleasant shade of red. Florence snorts.

“Of course I did. You’re bleeding, and covered in ice cream.” Her voice has lost its sugary quality now that she is certain that Radella is out of immediate harm, the fury that ripples from the innermost part of her being is almost all consuming, driving out the tickle of alcohol. “Besides, I wasn’t having fun anyways. My mother throws much better dinner parties.”

While her mother _did_ know how to throw a fine soiree, the former part of her statement was not entirely true. She had been having a perfectly enjoyable time, that was until she had discovered that the object of her fascination weighed the lives of others on the basis of their blood status. _That_ had not been enjoyable.

“I don’t know what happened, she began, soaking her napkin under the water for a moment before beginning to wipe away the smear of chocolate ice cream across the front of her gown. “I must have knocked the glass over, I can’t even remember –”

“Radella,” Florence practically growls. “I can sense when magic is used, please don’t try and lie to me. You have nothing to excuse.” She does not elaborate that years of native magic have made her physically sensitive the presence of magic, nor that she has half a mind to leave the Hufflepuff in the bathroom and return to Slughorn’s office so that she can jinx each person one by one around the table.

“I thought I would be used to it,” Radella croaks, and then the tears come, streaming down her cheeks and falling from her chin. Florence does not know what to do except to pull the smaller girl into a hug, pressing Radella’s face into her neck where she can feel the tears that spill onto her skin. “It has been this way since I got to Hogwarts,” she whimpers, and Florence snakes her other arm around her friend’s waist. “Accidents that always looking like mistakes all because I’m a muggle born. I don’t even know why it matters?”

“It doesn’t matter. It has never mattered,” Florence whispers into Radella’s curls, trying her best to keep her voice level because she is teetering on explosion, on breaking bones with her own two hands. She had not known that Radella was muggle born, but of course she was, it was the only thing that could only explain the reactions of each of the pure-blood students around the table. “Radella, it is no fault of your own that people are too closed-minded to see the wonder that you are, that they would let something so insignificant define you. Their opinions shame them more than it will ever reflect on you,” she assures the trembling girl.

“I wouldn’t care if it weren’t embarrassing. If it was only snide remarks or even a shove here and there I could handle it,” Radella pulls away, pressing fists into her eye sockets and exhaling deeply. “But it’s like they have this image of me that I don’t fit, and they have to demean my mind and spirit until I do.”

“And you can’t let them, you have to fight them tooth and nail every step of the way. You have as much right to be here as they do,” Florence insures her. She thinks about her own proposition, about her singular year at Hogwarts that she had to barter tooth and nail for. How she had traded her body, her future marriage for the opportunity for merely one year of fully-rounded magical education, because she loved tradition, and she also believed that society could be _more._ Because if she was to be given away to the highest bidder, she would not go meekly into that affliction.

“Thank you, Florence.” Radella says, her hands falling once more to her sides, green eyes rimed red from tears peering up to Florence’s brown.

“Don’t thank me, just go back the Hufflepuff common room and get some sleep. And keep beating all of those fools in Transfiguration.”

They grin at each other, a friendship forged and now solidified by a shared moment of strife, a common agreement to overcome the powers that would attempt to hold them back. Radella departs with a rustling of skirts, and Florence is left to find her own way back to the Ravenclaw common room. The idea of returning to Slughorn’s party does not once cross her mind.

.

.

.

She slips out of bed that morning without waking Elizabeth, ignoring the puddle of Auburn silks that are the ruined remains of her dress. Covered in blood and shredded from flying pieces of glass, she had undressed blindly the night previous, abandoning the garment on the floor. Lifting her wand from her bedside table, Florence runs through her extremely limited arsenal of spells before realizing she has no capability to burn the gown without resorting to native magic, and somehow this seems too menial for such a skill. She won’t dishonor the spirts of Adsila with revenge. Sighing to herself, Florence dresses for the day, a quick glance in the mirror revealing deep circles under her eyes, the scratch on her cheek from a stray shard of glass crusted over black with dried blood. She has certainly looked better.

He is waiting for her in the hallway when she steps out of the common room, his looming figure separating from the shadows to stand before her, the early morning light turning his skin obsolescent, nearly glowing. Tom is expressionless, his jaw tight, eyes impossibly dark. When he walks the folds of his robes move like smoke, like he is hovering above the ground, an ancient spirit brought back to life.

“Allman,” he says, and his voice is perfectly calm. Florence’s hands form into fists, a pulse of rage so enormous runs through her she considers letting her magic run uninhibited from her body, letting it strike the boy before her, but she knows it would be useless. Tom is too strong to be effected by her magic, but she wants him to acknowledge her presence, to feel the sting of the human life-force that he so clearly dismisses.

“Back to last names are we?” She snaps, because she hates when he calls her that. Because she is more than her last name. Yet already she can feel her anger fading, too exhausted from the night before and restless dreaming to maintain her fury.

“Florence,” he starts again, this time raising his two hands before him as if attempting to calm a wild animal. There are dark circles that match her own under his eyes, somehow managing to enhance the fallen angel façade that Tom has succeeded to affect in the morning light.

“I can’t right now,” Florence sighs, stepping past his outstretched arms and pushing on in the direction of the Great Hall. In two steps he is beside her, his gaze riveted upon Florence. She does not _care_ that he must have been up before dawn to wait for her, and she certainly doesn’t _care_ that he seems desperate to speak with her. He had spoken to her last night – too much – and he couldn’t take it back.

“Stop, I want to speak to you.”

“It is unfortunate for me that I do _not_ want that.” Beside her Tom’s hands clench into fists for a moment before he wills them to relax.

“Why are you being so stubborn?”

“Why were you waiting outside of my common room?” She nearly shouts, rounding on him, forcing him to take in the cuts across her face, the bruises under her eyes.

“Because,” His jaw is clenched so tight that his words are muffled when he speaks. “I want to speak with you.”

“Did you come to hear me say that I held her while she sobbed? Or maybe you wanted to know that she’s suffering minor lacerations across her arms and face. Which was it?” Florence demands, jabbing a finger in his direction. His face is unflinching, eyes wide at yet another change in Florence’s demeanor.

“Did you do it?” She presses, watching for the slightest twitch in his appearance, anything that might tell her if he is lying.

“No,” he sneers, the rose of his lips turning down into a frown.

“But you approved of it.” It is an accusation that goes without saying – she can remember his face from last night, the grin that had eaten its way to her heart and left a black trail of disease.

“Why are you protecting her? She is a _mudblood,_ Florence,” he hisses as if this was the simplest equation to understand. Her mouth falls open. _How could you not see this_ her mind considers, over and over and over again until she thinks she might cry because she hates this version of him, this cruel, dismissive shell of a man.

“I don’t even know what that means? She was raised by NoMaj’s? Born to them?” Florence throws her hands in the air, bewildered why this matters.

“As if you have _any_ grounds to lecture me.” Tom leans forward, their faces spaces apart. “I know about Rappaport’s law, about the extent Americans went to in order to separate Muggle and Wizarding society.”

Florence turns on her heels and storms away, blindly walking because for a moment she had actually considered slapping him, and even she would not stoop that low. Tom is behind her, following without comment as she marches down corridors seemingly at random.

“I am so thankful,” she spits, her vocal chords nearly ripping at the gravel in her voice, “that amongst other things, you are now also an American History scholar.” She wrenches open a door and they stumble into a dead-end corridor that she recognizes through her haze is somewhere on the third floor near the Arithmancy classroom. Once more she spins to face Riddle.

“Did you ever stop to consider for ten seconds when you were attempting to justify your horribly outdated viewpoint that maybe, just _maybe_ , there is more to the story than this one fact that you thought to weaponize against me?” Tom’s face is resolutely blank. With another audible sigh she leans against the wall behind her, closing her eyes to gather her thoughts.

“Rappaport’s law was passed in the late 18thcentury. NoMaj’s all across America had been burning witches alive for years in the Salem Witch Trials, and the tension was only getting worse, culminating in the Barebone-Twelvetrees scandal with several misidentified and dead NoMaj’s from New York.” Florence can hear the voice of her Governess as they flipped through pages in her History textbook. “It was horrific, and people were terrified. There weren’t as many witches and wizards at the time in America – most of them were refugees to our country escaping magical prosecution across Europe and Africa – and NoMaj’s posed a genuine and concrete threat to magical civilization.”

“In the North, where almost all of the magical population at the time was centered, Rappaport’s law was obeyed strictly, enacting complete separation of NoMaj and Wizard societies.” Florence does not want to open her eyes, does not want to risk seeing disgust etched into the obsidian of his pupils. “But in the South things were completely different. There weren’t enough people, intermarriage was necessary just to sustain the human population regardless of magical ability or not.”

“You were raised on a plantation growing magical herbs and you mean to tell me that you have no concept of blood purity?” Tom’s voice is thunderous, disbelieving.

“Of course I understand it, but I don’t believe it holds value. The population in the South stabilized after some time and wizards began to separate themselves once more from NoMaj society, but you couldn’t just convince the entire South that people who had once been necessary for life were now inferior and should be kept at bay, Tom!”

“You live in an entirely wizarding community!”

“Yes! Spectre is a wizarding community in the loosest of senses. We all live on massive tracks of land, our closest neighbors – sometimes NoMaj’s, sometimes witches and wizards – miles away. My father’s family intermarried with Cherokee’s, my mother’s descends from the English squib Lord Livingston. My family is considered _stronger_ for our pervasive presence in the South, for our business acumen, for my Cherokee blood and European ties. We aren’t affluent because someone thinks that our magic is somehow more magical!” she is ranting now, her thoughts incoherent in her urge to make him understand. “Of course I recognize that there are fundamental differences between NoMaj’s and Wizards, but I do not buy into your British magical caste system that subjugates muggleborns to some second tier member of wizard society. Descend from royalty or descend from NoMaj’s in America – it doesn’t matter – magic is _magic._ ”

“You have no comprehension of the threat muggles pose to society, of the monsters that they are.” Tom’s voice is like ice and something in her chest starts leaking, the pain acute, growing by the second.

“Is this about the orphanage you were raised in? Were you raised by muggles?” Florence cannot understand his logic, his unfounded fury, and she grasps at straws.

“The orphanage?” He laughs, and it is high and cruel. The wall behind her is the only thing supporting Florence, the echoing of his laughter driving her to press against the stone, to ground herself to some version of reality. “The orphanage was a brutal imitation of what I suppose a childhood is supposed to represent. It is no matter, I was strong enough to overcome those circumstances, but I cannot shake the _filthy_ wretch that was my muggle father – who’s name I have been forced to bear, the pathetic excuse for a witch that was my mother. A witch who lost her magic because the man she had poisoned stopped loving her, who gave birth to me and _died_.”

Tom is speaking so quickly Florence wonders if flames will pour from his mouth. The aching in her heart can only intensify, but this time it is for him, against every bone in her body she cannot stop the pity that wells within her chest. A stray lock of hair has fallen across his forehead, his eyes are sparking and wild and Florence remembers that they are midnight and not black. The urge to cry returns to her.

“I’m sorry,” Florence says, because she cannot think of anything else to say. Because she does not agree with him. Because she pities him.

“I don’t want your apologies, I did not ask for it.”

“Then what do you want?”

Tom steps within inches of Florence, his face is so close to hers that she can again see the streak of sky blue around the very inside of his iris, like a beam of light passing through a cloud. Here where she can smell him, Florence is overcome with the all too familiar urge to _touch_ him, to confirm that he is not some brooding, powerful, enigmatic figment of her imagination. She resists.

Tom’s mouth has fallen open as he seems to consider his words, yet none come. A moment later he has spun away and disappeared out of the door through which the entered, taking with him the thunder and electricity of his presence.

It is several long minutes later until Florence can still her breathing and exit behind him.

.

.

.

“Morning, Florence!” Philip waves her over, fixing her a cup of coffee just how she likes it so that by the time she has taken her seat beside him, the mug is fully prepared. “You look awful,” he adds, his simple brown eyes narrowing slightly as he examines the purples smears under her eyes, the cuts on her face.

“Charming as always,” she replies, unable to make herself grin, her eyes wandering to the Slytherin table where Riddle’s figure is conspicuously missing. _Don’t think about him_ her voice nags, and she angles her body towards Philip in conscious protest. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“Look if it’s about the Gilford thing,” he begins, nursing his own cup of tea. The skin under his freckles reddens as he shrugs. “Don’t feel bad about it. I mean to say, it’s not your fault.”

Florence is overcome with a rush of warmth for her friend, and placing her hand on his thigh, she gives it a slight squeeze before returning to her coffee. They eat in silence for a few moments, Philip hounding spoonful’s of oatmeal and Florence enjoying eggs on toast before Philip breaks the silence once more.

“Oh, and don’t be too hard on Lizzie, aye?” He said, his eyes searching Florence’s own. There is the familiar burn across her cheeks as she feels the blush spread to her hairline. How had Philip known her disappointment with her friend? “I may not understand your tear-wringing for muggle borns, but I’ve a shite father which’s enough to make me question nearly anything he believes. Lizzie’s as pure as the come – it’d be hard for her to develop any independent ideas from her family.”

“Of course,” Florence agrees, her interest piqued at the oh-so-rare mention of Philip’s family. “Are you going to tell me about your father?”

“I know you’re American, which means your brain capacity is inferior,” he says with a wink and a nudge to the ribs, “but you can’t just go saying and asking whatever you want here.”

“You know what my father does,” Florence points out.

“Me and my dad don’t get on, Florence,” he sighs. “But if you must know, he deals in antiques, owns a retail front off of Diagon Alley.”

“Sounds unquestionably boring.”

“Well, we can’t all own _plantations_ can we, firstie?”

He is stiff, mouth downturned in an uncharacteristic frown, and Florence decides to exercise a rare moment of self-control and remain quiet. Lizzie joins them soon after, her cool gaze warming at the sight of their bickering as she sits on the bench across from them. Florence feels a momentary beat of sadness as she observes Lizzie’s figure before her, but it quickly dissolves when she recalls her argument with Riddle only hours prior. She was too exhausted by her disappointment in Riddle to add Lizzie to that list, and besides, there was Samhain to look forward too.

“I’m sorry about your dress last night, Florence,” Lizzie murmurs, her cool gaze fixing upon Florence with never before seen level of earnestness in their depths. It is a selective apology, not for her beliefs – Lizzie would never justify her views and Florence does not want her too – but an apology for Florence, that someone she cares about is hurt, that Lizzie disappointed her.

“It’s fine, Lizzie,” Florence says, because it is. Because they are friends and it was merely part of the human condition to overcome differences. “That dress was teetering on out of fashion anyways, it’s not like I could wear it again.”

They both grin at each other. Philip rolls his eyes.

“I’m glad you recognize that,” Lizzie concludes, picking up her teacup so that her summer gaze fixates upon Florence through the steam. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”

.

.

.

Avoiding Tom Riddle is easy now that Florence realizes she has spent nearly every day for the past month looking for him. Or at least, she tells herself it is, that the ache that churns through every muscle in her body has nothing to do with missing the flash of his eyes, the curl of his lip, discussion that challenges every thought Florence has ever had.

Small actions, like training her eyes not to seek out the flash of his porcelain wrists during class, sitting with her back towards the Slytherin table during meals come easily. Others, like arriving late each week to Care of Magical Creatures so as to insure he will not try and escort her, standing in the back of the greenhouse in Herbology so she cannot watch his perfectly delicate skin strangle man-crushing vines or prune poisonous flowers, halting every visit to the library so that Tom cannot ambush her – these steps are harder, reshaping the routine Florence has formulated since arriving at Hogwarts. It has been a month and a half since she first walked through the oak front doors – how has he consumed her in such a short span of time?

Florence must resort to inviting Radella into the Ravenclaw common room so that they can work on Transfiguration assignments, the extra length they must go too resulting in an unexpected positive: a loose acquaintance between the Hufflepuff girl, Lizzie, and Philip – Florence the bridge in between. No one asks why she is moodier, why their American friend no longer braves the corridors alone, lest she run into Tom unaccompanied. Lizzie’s cool gaze is knowing, but she does not comment – for one Florence blesses her British reticence.

He has disappointed her, but more importantly, she has disappointed herself. Because she fears one conversation with him will send her toppling down the rabbit hole that is her fascination with the wizard, with his handsome features and roiling voice and his ability to make her feel special and seen because he is both of those things, and maybe he sees it in her too.

Her disappointment and subsequent rejection of the Head Boy’s presence have highlighted the very limited number of friends she has been able to make, exacerbating the longing for her family who’s letters are too few and too far in between. Owen writes to her next, a two page long memo on his research into anti-rust charms that reduces her to sobs that night as she goes to bed, utilizing for the first time the silencing charm she has learned on her bedframe so as not to wake the other seventh years. At times her homesickness is so draining she cannot eat, each breath is a labor, a burden. All her life she has wanted to go away, and now she has achieved that only to learn that freedom comes with its own set of chains. How naïve she was.

It is not easy to replace the fire that is Tom Riddle’s sudden presence in her life, but it is manageable, the dawning of each morning a reminder that the same sun spirit is shining somewhere over her fields in Georgia. Over her father in Somerset, and that Tom Riddle’s spark cannot change these inevitable facts. So what if she is wretched and Hogwarts no longer holds charm and even magic is less interesting because she has no one to share her wonder in it with? Surely these feelings are not permanent?

When Thursday evening rolls around Florence and Lizzie go for a walk around the edge of the black lake. She ignores the inching of the clock hands towards and finally past seven when she should be beginning her tutoring session with Tom _. I will not consent to learn from him_ is what she tells herself in a form of self-righteous protest. Yet in the smallest corner of her mind, a biting voice whispers of her own weakness, that she does not truly care what he thinks of muggle borns, that her life is infinitely more dull without him.

Forcing a smile and silencing these thoughts for the hundredth time, she grabs Lizzie’s hand and pulls her over to a shrub to show off her knowledge of magical herb lore, to attempt to forget the burning she feels down to her very soul when a certain set of midnight eyes alight upon her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really struggled with this chapter for some reason. I think it's hard for us as readers/fans of HP to separate what we know of Tom at this time, and I have to remind myself that Florence's first and only impression of Tom is that he is extremely good looking, head boy, and that the teachers seem to think highly enough of him to entrust Tom with her education. It's a hard line to balance Florence's strong and opposing opinion with a general acceptance that beliefs like this are the norm for the time. I hope I did ok.
> 
> Anyways, thank you as always for the lovely support. Your feedback brings me nothing but joy!


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

“Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.”  
― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Avery writhes on the floor, his arms like tree limbs vibrating with the fury of Tom’s curse, the crackle of dark magic that flows from his very core down his arm, through his wand and into the purple jet of light that now wracks the seventh year boy’s bedroom with screams. The hair on the back of Tom’s neck stands on end, the tingling across his skin at the absolute control he exercises in this moment intoxicating, and yet it isn’t enough.

With a flick of his wrist the curse ends, leaving Avery panting on the floor, a dribble of blood running from the corner of his mouth. He must have bit the inside of his cheek or perhaps his tongue – Tom does not care. He has been cursing all of them – Avery, Nott, Lestrange, several of the other boys who had the sense to fall under his domain – for the better part of an hour, and it has done nothing to siphon away the _ache_ that seems to be ripping through his body, separating ligaments from bones, electrifying every nerve in his system.

“Go,” he whispers, leaning against the edge of his bed, watching as two boys scramble to lift Avery from the ground before they all scamper from the room, leaving Tom in silence. Alone, his thoughts seem to expand, stretching to fill the void of the other boys presence until he cannot escape them.

Florence is avoiding him. In class, in the corridors, even in the library, that haven of tutelage that has been Tom’s saving grace since he first stepped into Hogwarts – which he has now come to associate with the whiff of coffee and fawn waves cascading over the cover of a book – is empty with her absence. It infuriates him to a level he has rarely known. He forgets to breathe, taking out his wand and setting flames to whatever item is in his path. How _dare_ she avoid him? He was the last of the Slytherin line, a sorcerer the likes of which Great Britain had not seen since Albus Dumbledore. He is _immortal_.

No longer are there accidental brushes of their eyes across the Great Hall, none of the now familiar lurching sensations somewhere in his gut at the warmth he finds in their chestnut depths. No one has ever looked at him in such a way – most Slytherins transitioning from a look of disgust to awe with no emotion in between – and now no does look at him like Florence because every time they inhabit the same space her face is carefully ruled, distance firmly established.

Tom does not know how it came to be this way, to physically _miss_ another person to the point of pain because he’s never missed _anyone_ before. Of course he had wondered over his parents, but they had proven disappointing until the very end. He’d longed for acceptance from the students of Hogwarts, those who had ridiculed him for perceiving him as a mudblood, but he’d received something better – reverence. He’d never _needed_ any of them, _not that you need unremarkable Florence Allman_ he hisses to the empty room. But she had proven him weak, human, capable of feeling those emotions that he considered base and immature.

Merlin, he’d gone to her the very next morning after a restless night of sleep because the look of pure, unadulterated disappointment she had given him at Slughorn’s party had burned some part of his spirit he’d never known before. He’d considered _apologizing_ , a thought that Tom found so horrifying that it made him want to throw up and scrub his skin until it was scorched and red and new. Until the spell that she had surely cast upon him was driven from his body. But instead of apologizing, he’d freely offered her information about his disgusting, pathetic past, and to make it worse, he’d felt that mind numbing, heart freezing desire to _kiss_ her as if he was nothing more than a pubescent boy.

Just the memory of it turns his vision red, and without a second thought he has drawn his wand and summoned flames so hot they are blue, roaring about him, consuming every surface of the room because he cannot rid his mind of these foreign emotions.

And that morning they had fought had not been the first time. He’d wanted to kiss her during their last lesson, when her face had shone with wonder at the simple _augamenti_ spell that she had wanted to show Tom because his opinion mattered to Florence. Because Florence Allman, who everyone adored because she was rich and American and pretty – the perfect combination of old traditions and new ideas – had sought him out over any other. He knew what it felt to discover magic, to finally master something that had been denied, and he’d seen the enrapturing joy shaping her features, the resulting urge to bury his hands into her hair and press her against the wall and claim that joy for himself had been so prodigious he’d fled the room in shock.

Slughorn’s party had been like walking through the flames of Hell, or surely as close as physically possibly while alive because he’d laid eyes upon Florence in a deep auburn gown and forgotten his name and his heart had trembled to a halt and everything he’d ever known was insignificant because she was _beautiful_ and damn her for making him so _human._ And how could he have ruined it by pointing out what Myrtle Warren was – inconsequential – something he still felt was true to his bones but it had bothered Florence and shaken his entire world and now he didn’t care at all he just wanted her to _look_ at him for Merlin’s sake.

With a flourish of his wand, the flames cease and the bedroom is as it was, not a burn in sight. Tom is panting, his brain running a thousand miles a minute.

Florence is not remarkable, but she is the only person who has ever met him and never wondered if he was worth the space that he occupies in the wizarding world because in her own words _magic is magic_ and his mere existence proved his worth _._ She goads him and challenges him and praises him the way she would any person – something Tom has never had before. She treats him like he is _normal_ , so why does it make him feel so special? Like her smiles are a gift only for him, the sounds of her laugher a chorus that was composed in his honor?

Tom has so many foreign, nameless feelings inside of him and he has no idea what to make of them accept that he is in agony and his magic is wild and he has no way to fix it because the idea of begging forgiveness from Florence is a thought worse than death, even to Tom who cannot die. Even though he has done nothing wrong to point out the waste that is muggle society and muggle borns.

It is Friday afternoon free period, almost one week since Slughorn’s party where Florence set him aflame, less than twenty-four hours since she had deigned not to show up for their tutoring session, and only a quarter of an hour until he was supposed to share the Ancient Runes classroom with her. When had he begun to mark time with her movements? She had been something new and exciting to break the monotony of school, and then suddenly she had been more. Tom cannot recall when the change occurred. Perhaps in the library when she’d leaned forward and asked if he was satisfied, her dusty lips taunting him with a smirk. Or maybe it had happened when Dumbledore and she had returned from the rain soaked grounds, her hair sticking to her skin and shirt pressed to her body and magic – elemental and formidable – had swirled around her like a mystic perfume.

He’d meant to ruin her life when he met her – retribution for prosperity she’d been born into, that he’d been denied. Now he didn’t know _what_ he wanted and she’d asked him and he’d wanted to fucking _kiss_ her because he was a fool.

With an audible snarl he stuffed his wand into his robe pocket and set off for class, his knuckles whitening around the translation textbook he held in his hand. Wisely, his fellow seventh years had vacated the common room, a flicker of disappointment running through Tom as he swept from the green lit room out into the corridor. It might have helped his mood to send off one final curse before heading to class. _Shame_.

Florence is seated in the very last row of the classroom, the seat beside her occupied by a Ravenclaw Tom neither knows nor cares too. Not, of course, that he was considering sitting next to Florence, but her resolute stare at the desk in front of her makes his vision flicker red before he continues on to his normal seat at the front of the room.

Their assignment today is in Ancient Greek, Linear B specifically, some poem or play or another that spoke of an ancient, vengeful witch. Pressing his jaw together, Tom tries to force away the memory of Florence telling him she is fluent in _seven_ languages, including Linear B, because he certainly doesn’t want to think of her and he’s _certainly_ not impressed by that fact.

_…He spoke, the others lifted up their voice and called; and suddenly coming forth, she opened the shining doors and invited them in…_ Tom translated, each glyph painstakingly researched in his translation book before he pressed his quill to parchment. … _The rest all followed, heedless…_

The conversion was slow, it spoke of an ancient potion to turn men to pigs, men who had done nothing to wrong this witch – Circe – who was cruel and hated men simply because they were. Tom flipped the next page of the poem, curious.

_…and made a potion for them, - cheese, barley and yellow honey, stirred in the Pramnian wine, - but mingled with the food pernicious drugs to make them forget…_

Tom read as their foolish leader fell prey to Circe’s feminine charms, her evil nature turning his mind from the true journey, to return to his homeland and his power. The tale did nothing to cure Tom’s sour mood.

When at last he had finished the assignment, he turned it in with his best smile and vacated the classroom. The chair Florence had occupied was already empty, Florence being the first to finish the translation.

.

.

.

By the time Tuesday’s double Herbology lesson rolled around, Tom’s mood had not improved. Nothing of note had happened because Florence Allman was still insisting on acting like he was one of the stones in the Hogwarts courtyard. There had only been one brief moment of intrigue when Lestrange had brought him news that Clifford Allman had paid a hefty sum of money to have an item express-port keyed in from his estate, no laughing matter with the current rate of international travel fees. But after about an hour of theorizing what it could have been, Tom slipped once more into his now normal, dark mood.

Air inside the greenhouses is always uncomfortably moist, and Tom has to pause upon entering to peel off his gloves and scarf which he has donned to protect him from the cool, October winds. As he stows his things into his bag, his gaze meanders up the table to find a strange sight.

The Greengrass girl and Burke boy are standing before a thrashing Venomous Tentacula – eying it with overt trepidation – while across the table none other than Pyrrhus Avery and Florence Allman are doubled over in peals of laughter.

“God, could you two look _any_ more disgusted?” Florence cackles between gasping breaths. Her voice is light and airy and there is more color in her face than he has seen in a week, the bags under her eyes momentarily fading in the presence of her happiness. Tom wants to curse her for the fluttering feeling that passes through him, but as always, he refrains.

“Greengrass, you look like you’ve stepped in shit,” Avery says with his own guffaw. Tom does have to admit there is some truth in this statement when he observes the wrinkle in the blonde girl’s nose.

“I don’t see what’s so funny about a thorned plant that wants to strangle me,” Greengrass hisses, clearly trying to maintain some dignity as she steps further out of reach of the still waving branches.

“These things are easy,” Florence says, pulling on her dragonhide gloves, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her hand. “Look.”

Tom watches as with ease Florence grabs two of the vines, twisting them over and down like they are in a wristlock, before stroking the trunk of the plant a few times. It takes mere seconds and the plant is still, the fight seeming to have faded into nothingness. It is a decisive movement, and Tom knows the smile that now graces her face – one of self-satisfaction, that she is capable, that she fits within the magical ecosystem. She used it in their lessons when she mastered a new spell, when Tom complimented her, and now she is wielding it here for these fools who have no understanding of the divinity they are witnessing.

“Excellent work, Miss Allman,” Yarrow’s nasally voice calls out and Tom hastens down the greenhouse to stand beside Avery. Even around the hulking blonde he can see Florence stiffen, her head turn away from him to face Yarrow. “Take ten points to Ravenclaw! Such confidence is needed when dealing with Tentacula.” Florence makes no comment. Tom cannot see her face to gauge her reaction, a fact which drives the blood pounding in his ears to a wild tempo.

The de-thorning of the Tentacula is easy once the plant is calmed, but for all of Florence’s skill, Tom and his partner as well as the rest of the class struggle for several minutes trying to get their own specimen under control. By the time his vine is purring in contentment, he has a series of scratches across his face and he can feel beads of sweat dripping down his neck and spine. Tom’s partner has fared worse, her bun caught by a thrashing branch resulting in several strands of hair being ripped from her scalp.

With their head start and Florence’s capabilities, Avery and Allman have finished only one period through their double class, Yarrow inspecting their work with an approving eye.

“I’m working with you every week, Allman,” Avery chuckles under his breath. “I love getting out of class early.” Tom waits to hear her reproach the boy for using her last name, but it doesn’t come. There is a bubble of emotion in his chest as he uses the pair of hand sheers to remove yet another torn, but he does not know if it is pride that he is somehow separate from Avery or annoyance in her inconsistencies. Perhaps it is both, but the swell seems to bloom until the sheers shake in his grasp and his throat has constricted to nothing.

“You could only be so lucky, Pyrrhus,” she says, her voice still, no sign of the electricity he has come to expect from her.

Tom turns to see Avery pull away from the table first, his absence creating a vacuum where for one time-halting second Florence’s eyes lock with Tom’s, the collision of light and dark so powerful that he must repress a physical shiver. She inhales through her nose audibly, one split second for Tom to memorize the lines of her face, to note any changes since last she looked upon him, and then she is gone, slipping past Tom as she pulls her bag thoughtlessly onto her shoulder, a whiff of coffee in the air the only sign that she had been there.

Tom’s jaw tightens, pressing his lips together until he is certain nothing can pass through their hold. Into his pocket he stuffs a piece of paper, a scroll that had been hanging haphazardly from Florence’s school bag which Tom snagged as she tried to flee his presence. It is only the tightness in his jaw now that prevents the smirk that attempts to creep onto his face, cooling the urge to rip it out and read it in front of his classmates. She could try and ignore him, but he would still have her secrets.

The moment their task is completed, Tom hurries from the greenhouse without waiting to hear Yarrow’s remarks, relishing in the stiff breeze that calms his flaming skin. Practically running up the hill, he disappears into the first deserted classroom he finds, locking the door behind him and peeling open the scroll. To some dismay, he realizes it is only the second page of a letter, the first obviously still somewhere in Florence’s satchel. With a sigh, he reads on.

… _and the issue with the current anti-rust charm is that it typically has a three year life span – and that is only if the caster is a master at the spell. When demand runs high and spell-masters are busy, many of the substitutes lack the proper power and training and their resulting charms are good for at most a year and a half. As you can see, finding a more efficient and approachable method for preventing rust is of great concern to Albion and the cauldron makers._

_I have been doing extensive research into the effects of casting during various steps of the process. My hypothesis is that a charm performed during the pouring stage, not the cooling stage where it is cast now, will result in a more adhesive bond between the metal and the magic. I have yet to find definitive proof, but my studies of both ancient smelting techniques and NoMaj chemistry have been illuminating. I wish so desperately that you could be here to discuss with me._

_Home is no more than the four walls of my room I must admit. Without you here to coax me into a ride, I’ve found that the safest place I can be with my thoughts is either the library or curled in my favorite chair beside the window. Mom has taken to inviting ladies over for luncheons with no one at home to talk too, which I suppose is better than my having to speak with her. Lord knows we have nothing in common. I’m just thankful that with Albion’s pending engagement and your debut to prepare for this Spring, she seems to have forgotten that I live here at all. I hope you are aware how miserable debut season is going to be for us all – Mom cannot stop talking about which boys she hopes you will pick as you escort. If you are smart, you will choose Albion and me and save yourself the misery of her derision._

_Dad is set to arrive very soon to help prepare for the harvest, and Albion too is taking a few weeks off of work. If only you could likewise come – I know how much you love the work and the land here. I’m sure that the land is missing you as well, although I overheard mom telling the ladies that you have been invited to a friend’s house for Samhain. You must take special care to note all of the traditions – I will want a full report over the holidays._

_I do apologize for not writing sooner. I of course only believe in speaking when I have something to say, and for a time all I had to communicate was that I missed you terribly, but I felt that you both knew that and that it was unproductive for you to hear as you started your new life at Hogwarts. I am, of course, incredibly proud of you for continuing your education, I just hope the people of Great Britain can comprehend their fortune at having you for an entire year. I certainly resent them for it._

_Sending all my love,_

_Owen_

The script was short and slanting, each word spaced apart as if it had been picked over meticulously, chosen with the utmost care. There is something clinical in this brother’s writing which Tom finds refreshing, his emotions expressed without overindulgence, his sharp and singular approach to magical theory capturing the essence of a well ruled mind. In short, he seems to be the very opposite of Florence – although they did appear to share a close bond.

Tom frowns at the paper for some time as if he thinks it might suddenly start speaking, providing information hidden in invisible ink. He uses a few revealing spells to be certain, but in the end the letter is just a letter and he rolls it up and stuffs it in his pocket.

With another frown to himself he gets to his feet, one word hanging on the edge of his mind, pecking at the corners off his brain. _Debut_. He did not know it in any context beyond its dictionary definition, but clearly it was an item or event. Owen Allman had referred to it as a _season_. With a flicker of annoyance that there was something he did not know, Tom burst from the empty classroom and made his way down the corridor, his feet carrying him the one place he could think to look. The library.

Unremarkable Florence Allman did not need to speak to him – he would have her secrets regardless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom is actually so immature and such a baby and needs so much help hahaha.
> 
> Writing him is so much fun because some screws are not all the way in. Poor boy doesn't understand his feelings - didn't even know that he had them.
> 
> Hope that y'all enjoyed! Thank you for all the positive responses:)


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

“Few sons are like their fathers; most are worst, few are better.”

― Homer, The Odyssey

“When are you going to quit moping around,” Lizzie finally breaks down and demands of Florence the Sunday before they are to leave for Samhain. They are both riffling through their trunks, holding up various accessories and articles of clothing, weighing the value and style for the next weekend’s activities.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Florence says, feeling her cheeks flood and the acrid taste of burnt pride dance across the base of her tongue. She can feel Lizzie’s eyes roll back into her head even though her back is turned to her counterpart, hands digging through her trunk for a pair of riding pants.

“You and Riddle got into some kind of argument at Slughorn’s party – don’t deny it,” Lizzie snaps when Florence whirls to dispute this claim. “And now for the past two weeks you’ve been acting like someone died.”

_Someone did die_ Florence wants to say. _Someone died and Tom thinks it’s inconsequential_. _Someone died and I’m nauseous with self-loathing because I don’t care either, I miss talking to him and looking at him and the weird energy between us and I don’t know what’s wrong with me._ Instead she asks her:

“And why do you suddenly care?”

“Because frankly, you’re downright unpleasant to be around these days.”

Florence feels her mouth open and close in silent fury, hands forming into fists as if she could batter Elizabeth’s words back into her mouth. She knows the truth when she hears it, and it only adds to her anger, the frustration that runs through her limbs.

“I’m just in shock,” she defends, throwing a pair of socks back into her trunk with more force than is strictly necessary. “He has disgusting views on the value of magical life.”

“Yes, Riddle has some of the most extreme views on muggle borns of anyone in the castle,” Lizzie agrees, her voice clinical and sharp with what Florence has come to think of her ‘know it all’ tone. “But in the end his views don’t differ that drastically from my own, and I don’t see you cutting me out of your life.”

Florence’s mouth falls open, she feels a cold sweat break out across her lower back.

“Lizzie, I would never just _drop_ you like that! You were the first person to welcome me to Hogwarts, and besides, I like you too much.” Florence can feel her nerve in her body freezing, the idea that Lizzie believes her capable of such a cruelty terrifying. Elizabeth turns to face her, summer blue eyes softening for a moment before she continues.

“I know that you prat,” she says with a thin smile. “But you also clearly enjoy being around Riddle – don’t deny it, I’m not stupid I saw you watching him since almost the first week – and I don’t know why you are punishing him and yourself for something you would never punish me for.”

_Because he’s different_ Florence wants to snap. She can never voice that she expected these biases from someone raised in social circles as segregated as Elizabeth’s. That somehow it is more disappointing that pitiable, orphan Tom Riddle had reached the same, misunderstood conclusions.

“What he said was just… it was just revolting.”

“You’re being a hypocrite,” Lizzie says, her voice once more cold and sharp. “I honestly don’t care what your opinions on muggle borns are, nor do I particularly care for Riddle, but I’m tired of babysitting your emotions and I certainly won’t have you in such a terrible mood around my parents. I’ve given a glowing recommendation of you to my family and I will not be embarrassed.”

There is a moment of silence before Florence is able to give a shaking nod of her head.

“Fine, as long as _you_ aren’t the one in the sour mood when I am better at riding than you,” Florence jests, attempting to calm the tension that is ringing between the two girls.

“Keep dreaming.”

“Does everyone go home for Samhain,” Florence asks a moment later, admiring once more her gown for Saturday evening’s event.

“No, no of course not,” Lizzie said, an edge of bitterness seeping into her voice. “Until recently we got the entire week off to go home. There were no classes. Typically only the muggle borns stayed at Hogwarts while the half-bloods and pure-bloods went home to celebrate. But with the war against Grindelwald there have been _questions_ raised about leaving the muggle born population severely less supervised at the castle.”

Florence personally agreed that it was probably wise not to leave a large group of muggleborns unguarded during the current climate – but she could not deny that there was a sense of loss too. It was always sad to loose tradition, especially for families like the Greengrass’s who had most likely been celebrating Samhain in the same manner for centuries. With a swallow, she pushed away thoughts of the harvest she was missing.

“Parents that still want their children to celebrate have to put in a special request with the board of governors. We’re lucky that Septimus Malfoy has the entire board under his control so that we don’t have to worry about securing approval.”

“My brother Owen is so jealous that he isn’t getting to see the ceremony.”

“Owen sounds a lot smarter than you. Samhain is incredible.”

“Owen _is_ smarter than me, as much as I hate to admit it,” Florence says with a chuckle, but there is also the glow of pride on her brothers behalf. Owen had graduated top of his class at Ilvermorny – to be less intelligent than Owen was only to be human.

When at last they had finished packing, Florence and Lizzie made their way down for a late breakfast. They walk in silence, Florence’s mind mulling over the words Elizabeth had shot at her. _You’re being a hypocrite._ Even thinking them burned a pathway through her mind, yet Florence could not deny the truth of those words. She had not held Lizzie or Philip to the same standard, not even Pyrrhus who had most likely been responsible for what happened to Radella. No, she’d laughed with him all throughout Herbology, running away the moment Tom’s searching gaze had landed upon her. So what that his one look at seemed to turn her very bones to jelly, it wasn’t _wrong_ of her to feel disappointed in him.

Her internal debate carried her all the way down to the Great Hall where she seated herself without pretense, reaching for an empty mug and summoning a near boiling cup of coffee to placate her gnawing mind. It was, therefore, only after she had received her proper caffeine intake that Florence realized she’d sat facing the Slytherin table quite by accident. He was there, pristine and unblemished as the first night she had laid eyes upon him. The ebony of his hair melting in perfect waves, his skin wan and fair. Immediately Florence ripped her eyes away, returning to the now unsavory pork sausage on her plate, but there was no denying the slip up – the niggling thought in the back of her mind that she _did_ enjoy Tom’s presence, that she was maybe not wrong for her opinions, but wrong in her treatment.

“You know, you’re not going to burn if you look at him,” Lizzie commented, peering over her shoulder to locate what had caused Florence’s fully body jerk. Florence let out a little breath, recalling the way his eyes made her feel like she was drowning and flying all at once, but to voice this aloud seemed like the height of insanity. “Besides, he’s the most attractive boy in school – everyone thinks so. You would have been blind not to notice.”

“Then why did you say you didn’t particularly care for him?”

Lizzie shrugs, but her cool gaze remains firmly upon her teacup.

“Believe me, it has nothing to do with his looks. I just don’t love his _energy_ if that makes any sense at all.”

Florence nods, because it makes perfect sense. She knows the way his voice alone makes her feel, the flicker of his eyes as they turn crimson in rage. He is a man of many masks and Florence has only scratched the surface of the well underneath them. She is terrified by her desire to know more.

“We have a boy like that back home. Forsythe Blount – he’s three years older than me – his younger sister Tallulah is my age. He’s the local eye candy you could say, but I don’t think his _energy_ quite reaches Tom’s level.”

“Well, you’ll just have to invite me to Georgia sometime so I can compare,” Lizzie smirks, the spark in her summer eyes new to Florence. For a moment the sandy haired, freckled visage of Philip flashes before her eyes, but Florence pushes these thoughts away. It’s not her place to ask, however much she might want too.

If Florence had thought ignoring Tom Riddle was going to get easier after that morning, she was dead wrong. Lizzie’s words had done more than just singe a hole through her moral sense of right and wrong, they had opened a can of unnamed and unexpressed feelings that Florence had no desire to cope with.

Monday morning’s Care of Magical creatures was a physical pain as she strained her mind to focus not on the boy polishing the Gryphon’s beak, but on the creature itself – an animal which was truly spectacular despite Florence’s usual aversion. Yet there was something hypnotizing in the way Tom’s confidence failed to waver even before the golden eyed beast, his height allowing him to stand eye to eye with the creature that made _him_ seem like the object of study, not the magical animal.

He turned twice during the lesson to see Florence peering at him across the yard, each time was accompanied by the blank look that he’d worn during their first herbology lesson, as if her interest was not even worth registering a reaction. Both times Florence turned back to her own creature, the racing in her heart unrelated to her innate fear of winged mammals. _He hates muggle borns_ she would remind herself, and each time the responding voice was there to remind her. _You don’t care._

Double Herbology the next day was an even greater hurdle. Riddle positioned himself directly across the table from where she and Lizzie were working once more with Venomous Tentacula. The plants were shedding their rubbery outer layer which could be cut up and boiled as a temporary solution to most snake bites. Peeling the long strips off of the vines was grueling work, sweat pouring down Florence’s neck and back, but nothing could compare to the dark gazes she received in the windows between thrashing vines. He was watching her now, as if their brief eye contact in Care of Magical Creatures was some kind of alarm. She felt as if they had regressed completely to her first night of school, her fascination in his beauty, his unflinching disinterest.

She could not, however, deny that despite the lack of communication between them, that the desire to had only grown stronger to argue and debate and just be around Tom. The night before she had perfected transfiguring a teacup into a turtle under Professor Dumbledore’s tutelage, an Eastern Box Turtle no less, and she wanted to show him. Florence wanted to see the way his eyes would flash with some unknown emotion when she showcased her abilities, because he never laughed at her. Because he challenged her and told her when she was failing, but he never made her feel small over the little victories, the small magics that she was acquiring like books on a bookshelf. She had seen him command fire and perform nonverbal magic most adult wizards could not dream of mastering, but he did not mock her for her desire to learn.

He stared at her throughout Herbology, leaving most of the work to Pyrrhus so that by the time the double period ended Florence was a wreck of nerves and she fled the greenhouse without a goodbye to either Philip or Lizzie, steamrolling blindly up the hill towards the castle. Only distance, she thought, could calm her thoughts. She was, of course, incorrect. Instead she mulled over thoughts of a young Tom Riddle arriving at Hogwarts, as naïve and unaware of magic as Florence was even now. She has the maddening urge to travel back in time, to watch his narrow, angular face blossom each time magic is revealed to him, because in her short time of knowing Tom, she know he craves knowledge on a level that almost rivals her own. Because she sees herself in him, however much it makes her want to slip out of her own skin because she finds it demeaning to see herself in someone who hates muggles for no reason.

By the time Thursday evening rolled around, Florence was nauseous with the very idea of walking down to the Charms classroom for her tutoring. The roiling in her stomach made her skin feel hot and her head heavy, leading her to believe she might either faint or vomit at any moment. Laying stretched out atop her bed, she ran again through the reasons both to go and not to go.

The reasons not to go were simple. The first, was that she fundamentally disagreed with Tom Riddle’s views on NoMaj’s, NoMaj descendants, and their worth in magical society. The second was more intimate – that she was embarrassed by her behavior towards him, that she had let her appreciation of his abilities become an excuse for holding him to a higher standard. _Hypocrite_. The word burned its way down her throat anew each time it crossed her thoughts. 

The reasons to go were even simpler. She wanted too. She wanted to see him and to learn magic and to look him in the eye where she could crawl under his skin and drive him into madness. Maybe it was a sign that _she_ was the mad one.

At last her baser propensities won. Florence forced herself to drink an entire glass of water before snagging her wand and leaving the Ravenclaw tower behind.

She stands outside the Charms doorway waiting until she can feel the reverberations of the clock tower chiming seven through the stones at her feet. With one breath and then a second, she pushes the door open and rushes, somewhat unceremoniously, through the opening.

The room is empty.

Florence strolls between the columns of desks, ignoring the plummeting in her chest, a swooping sensation that brings back the nausea she had fought for hours to conquer. Her feet echo throughout the classroom, the welling within her throat threatening to burst forth in a sob. She knows he will not show, most likely furious that she stood up the two weeks prior lessons, but it is more than his presence she has lost. He was, to her chagrin, the only reason she was progressing in either Defense or Charms, and she has lost this too. _You came to Hogwarts to learn, look at what you’ve done._

For a moment she traces her finger along the edge of Levisor’s desk, delaying the moment in which she will leave. _Maybe he is just running late?_ Florence knows this is not true – having spent two weeks ignoring him to the very best of her abilities, she is familiar with his prompt nature. Tom is not late to any class, even this adjunct tutoring session which he had been forced into. If anything, he is consistently early. All the same, she allows herself to fantasize the door blowing open, his perfect hair falling in neat waves across his forehead, the granite of his skin pink from exertion, apologies raining from his lips on behalf of his tardiness in that voice that makes her entire body sing, but the fantasy does not materialize.

The walk back to the common room is dreary.

.

.

.

Friday morning dawns with a flurry of activity as Florence and Lizzie gather their various suitcases and hanging bags, double and triple checking for the presence of their wands as they change into day dresses more appropriate for life outside of the Hogwarts grounds. They were up before the sun rose, pulling rollers from their hair and pinning the waves into sleek hairdo’s. Lizzie applied a freezing charm to both of their heads, assuring Florence that travel by Floo would decimate all but the firmest hair care.

“Merlin I can’t wait to be home,” Lizzie admits, rapping all three of her suitcases (one for each day she’d told Florence) so that they will float along behind her. After the turmoil of the night before, Florence cannot help but agree.

They join a short queue of students outside of Headmaster Dippet’s office where they will have the opportunity to Floo home. It moved quickly, and in no time Florence and Lizzie were placing their luggage into green flames before Lizzie tapped them with her wand, muttering _Greengrass Estate_ under her breath. With a bust of fire they disappeared.

“In you get girls,” Dippet commands, clearly eager to be finished with his duties of dispatching his students home for Samhain. Taking Lizzie’s hand, Florence follows her into the fire, reveling in the tickling sensation that seeps up from her feet.

“Prepare to meet your maker, Allman,” Lizzie teases, looping their arms together before throwing the handful of green powder into the flames around them, speaking clearly into the room before them: “Greengrass Estate!”

Their journey is swift, propelling them with sickening turns through the void until their feet slam down once more into reality, a small cloud of soot announcing their arrival. Lizzie had already moved beyond the fireplace, removing traces of ash from her body with a gentle flick of her wand, repeating the motion in Florence’s direction. Florence does not thank her because she cannot think, her eyes at last catching up to their travels and taking in the space around them.

They are standing in an ornate room, paintings the size of mountains covering the walls, a frescoed ceiling depicting mythical beings, gold trim that could only be hand wrought trailing around the room. Florence could feel her mouth fall open as she watched a painted cherub peek its head through a cloud and wink at her, naughty despite his apparent young age. It was an opulent chamber, deep reds and blues with dark oiled canvases that were at the minimum hundreds of years old. The wood of the furniture was mahogany, velvet tassels hanging from the corners of cushions, every surface made of the finest materials. And there was so _much_ to look at, the room stretching on endlessly, yet by the precise seating arrangements, it seemed no more than a sitting room.

“Cadmus,” a voice called, melodious and yet distinctly cool, reminiscent of the blonde girl beside Florence. “Elizabeth and her friend have arrived.”

Not a moment later a woman appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in a stunning ivory coat that pinched in at her waist, the black velvet skirt flowing out from under it, stretching down to the woman’s calves, a pair of simple, black heels adorning her feet. Without question this woman could be none other than Harmonia Greengrass, the sharp red of her lips, the cascading blonde hair like something from a Hollywood magazine. She was divine and terrifying and Florence felt her mouth go dry.

“Elizabeth, we’re so glad to have you home,” she said in a voice that was so cool Florence couldn’t help but be reminded of her own mother back home in Georgia. When the Greengrass Matriarch moves at last, she seemed to float, her steps silent upon the carpet as she drew her daughter into a sweeping hug.

“And Florence,” she says, moving on from her daughter as quick as she had moved to embrace her. Mrs. Greengrass had wide, dark eyes, offsetting the creaminess of her skin, the crimson of her lips. “Elizabeth has told us so much about you. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Florence replies with her most polite smile, offering a small curtsy before pressing her hands once more to the belt at her waist, wondering if her Navy taffeta dress with ruffled sleeves was quite dignified enough for the presence of this woman. She reassures herself that Lizzie would have told her had the dress not been fitting. “Lizzie was so thoughtful to invite me here for Samhain – I’ve never had the opportunity to participate in the tradition until now.” There is a glow of approval in Harmonia’s face at Florence’s words, as if she had met some proper level of poise and formality.

“Yes, when Elizabeth told us you had never had the opportunity to celebrate Samhain in America, we told her you must come. We tried very hard to convince your father to join us as well, but Cadmus assures me he was adamant he must return to America.” There is an edge of iron in the coolness of her tone, and Florence flushes.

“Oh, I’m sure my father would have loved nothing more than to come, but it is peak harvest season for our Dittany fields and he must be home to oversee the collection, preparation, and shipping of this year’s crop. It was very generous of your husband to invite him, you will both have to visit him at our home in Somerset when he returns to England,” Florence says. There is another flash of approval in the Matriarch’s features before their conversation is interrupted.

“Lizzie!” A small girl cries, and there is a flash of yet more blonde hair before Elizabeth staggers backwards, a small girl clinging to her figure. Behind her a man enters the room, tall and severe looking with summer blue eyes and a pinched face. He does not smile, but there is a softness about his gaze as he looks down upon his daughters.

“Hello, Lottie,” Lizzie chimes, pressing a kiss to her younger sister’s head, peeling the young girl from her frame with a mixed look of exasperation and adoration. Seeing all three of the Greengrass women up close, there is no denying their beauty, each the spitting image of their mother who stands behind each of her girls now, one hand on either shoulder. Florence has the irrational thought that Harmonia Greengrass probably broke several hearts during her time at Hogwarts.

“Welcome to our home, Florence,” Cadmus Greengrass calls, dragging her attention back to his pinched expression. His voice is clipped, like the words cannot exit his mouth fast enough. “We were all thrilled to hear that you were sorted into Ravenclaw with our dear Elizabeth. It is about time that house added another family of note.” The tone of his voice did not speak to a thrill of any kind, but, Florence reasoned with herself, he was a ministry official – thrills were most likely not frequent in his line of work.

“I’m certain I could not have survived Hogwarts without, Lizzie,” Florence admits with ease because it’s true. Glancing at her friend, Lizzie is beaming at her, a rare expression for her aristocratic features.

“How’s the planning going, mother?” Elizabeth asks, peering at the woman over her shoulder.

“The ballroom was enlarged last week thankfully and we’ve been working on the table for the past few days. The flower arrangements are going in now, so hopefully things will be finished by this afternoon with plenty of time to prepare for tonight,” she explains, straightening a hair that had come loose from one of Elizabeth’s curls.

“Mother let me help pick the flowers this year,” Lottie exclaims, clapping her hands together before her and staring up at her sister. “This year we’re doing _roses._ ”

“Oh, how original of you, Lottie,” Lizzie laughs, petting her sister’s head. “The women of the twenty-eight won’t know what to do with themselves in the face of your originality.”

“Don’t be rude, Elizabeth,” her mother snaps. Lizzie rolls her eyes, but falls silent. There is a momentary pang of jealousy as she observes the two sisters, Florence recalling her final meal at home before departing for England. If only Albion and Owen could have attended Samhain – Owen for the tradition, Albion for the party – she would have melted with joy.

“Pinki will take your things to your rooms,” Harmonia continues after a pause. “If you need anything while you are here, Florence, please do not hesitate to call for Pinki. She’s under strict instructions to respond to your summons while you are our guest.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Greengrass. That was very thoughtful of you.”

“Lizzie tells me you ride?” Cadmus interjects, his eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch, almost as if in challenge.

“Yes sir, I’ve had the fortune of taking lessons since I was a young girl.”

“We have several horses in our stables, please feel free to use my own saddle if you find that our guest offerings are not to your taste.”

It is a small comment, but the wideness of Elizabeth’s eyes says it all. Florence has won his approval, somehow, someway. _Most likely your father won his approval_ Florence reminds herself, but she smiles at him regardless.

“That is extremely kind of you, Sir. Lizzie offered to take me on the steeplechase course, I’m looking forward to the excursion.”

When at last Elizabeth and Florence had managed to break away from the rest of the Greengrass family, Florence can feel her heart starting to calm. They were uptight, but they were no different from her mother’s family. There was a sense of familiarity to their mannerisms that assuaged her deeply rooted nerves.

“That went well,” Lizzie concludes with a smile, genuine and wide as she leads Florence through sitting room after sitting room until they reach what she assumes is the main entrance, the black and white checkered marble floor the size of a quidditch pitch. There are two stone staircases wrapping around the room; Elizabeth leads her up the left one and then down the hallway into a light, airy room with a pale blue bedspread and curtains that are nearly twenty feet long to match the size of the window. There are fresh tulips in a vase on the table across from her bed, and someone has lit the fireplace so that the room is pleasantly warm despite it’s size.

“This is your room. Pinki will have your things up in a moment, and my room is just down the hall,” Lizzie explains, taking Florence’s wrist and dragging her back out of the room and down past several closed doors, around one right turn, before throwing open a set of white French doors into a two-roomed suite, golden and regal.

“I didn’t realize you’d given me the servant’s quarters,” Florence jests, letting out a low whistle and spinning to take in the sitting room before entering through another set of French doors into Lizzie’s bedroom.

“I couldn’t let that big head of yours get any bigger,” Lizzie quips, not a step behind Florence.

“We’ll see how you’re feeling after our ride.”

“Go get changed – I don’t want any more talk from you until we’re in the field.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments and Kudos! I love Lizzie because she's not afraid to call bull. 
> 
> We're at last getting close to Samhain, I'm so excited for what comes next... not to leave you on a cliffhanger or anything:)


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

“A thousand emotions have swept through my tonight. I do not comprehend half of them.”

― Kate Chopin, The Awakening

Lizzie, Florence begrudgingly had to admit, was quite a capable rider. Her horse was a massive bay mare named Lady Epolline that seemed to respond to Lizzie’s every command with no more than a nudge of a heel, a gentle tug of the reign. Lizzie and Epolline together were a formidable pair, the black of her saddle polished to perfection, gray riding jodhpurs and black velvet helmet gleaming alongside the neatly braided mane of her horse.

Florence was allowed the pick of the horses, at last selecting a dappled gray charger who’s eyes widened when she stopped in front of his stall, the thud of his hoof hitting the door alerting to her that his horse was as wild as he appeared.

“Of course you would choose, Leander,” Lizzie said, stepping onto the mounting block and throwing her leg over the saddle with ease. “He’s my father’s horse, but be careful, he bites.” Florence was mindful as she forced the bit into his mouth, withdrawing her fingers not a moment too soon.

They did two loops around the course, Lizzie taking victory in the first, Florence the second. Lizzie was a sharp, poised rider, heels resolutely down and mind focused on the obstacle before her while Florence was somewhat reckless, urging Leander forward with savage grins and a hand buried deep in his mane. In the mid-morning sun the temperature was pleasant and the breeze dried the splashes of water from their clothing, allowing the girls to enjoy a lap around the entire estate after their races had completed.

“So we have dinner first,” Florence clarifies again, turning to face Lizzie who was sitting with ease as Epolline trotted along beneath her. “And then we will all go outside for the Samhain ceremony?”

“Yes,” Lizzie confirms, her summer eyes flashing with excitement. To Florence’s right is a thick wood which Lizzie has explained is home to a several unicorns and a rare breed of pixies, and to their left the house can be seen across the rolling hills and gardens, a massive stone façade as elegant as it is imposing. “The fire ceremony will last into the small hours of the morning so we will all sleep in till past noon tomorrow.”

“And you still haven’t told me what you’re going to offer the fire,” Florence nudges to no avail. Lizzie simply shakes her head.

“I’m not going to tell you, and don’t tell me what you are offering. It’s supposed to be a secret.”

This was the aspect of the evening that had Florence the most worried. Lizzie had gone into depth on multiple occasions of the wonders of Samhain – the feasting, the socializing, the midnight fire, and the gala the following evening. People would bring forth items to be thrown into the fire, but from what Florence had gathered, it had evolved – as had much of the ceremony – into a showcasing of wealth. Samhain now was no more than an excuse of the richest members of wizarding society to gather and show off to each other, to revel in their magic and their opulence – not that there was anything strictly wrong with that premise, but it was disappointing to see that a ritual which had begun in honor of the spirits and the renewal of magic had been thus degraded.

Fascinated by the practice, Florence had taken herself to the library and done deeper research. It was a Celtic celebration with roots going back millennia, a liminal time when the borders between the living and spirit words was at its thinnest. The offerings were intended for good fortune during the year, most often made on behalf of a family. Of course, Lizzie had not mentioned any of this, instead describing the guests that were to be expected, the drama that had unfolded in years past.

But Florence knew the truth, just as her great-grandmother Adsila had. The spirits were to be honored, the gifts could only be given with meaning, with the true intent of honoring. As the sole member of her family present, Florence was responsible for providing an offering – responsible for appeasing those magics which were both separate and the same as her own. The weight had been crushing, but at last she had known, and sent to her father for what she intended to give.

When they at last reached the barn again, two stable hands ran out and took their horses from them while the girls removed their helmets and made their way through neatly trimmed gardens to the back terrace where Pinki, the Greengrass family house elf, had laid out a platter of sandwiches and glasses of freshly squeezed lemonade. They ate in relative silence, joined shortly after sitting by Lottie, who seemed incapable of staying away from her sister for more than a moment. Explaining to the girl that she was not going to be able to ride with the older pair had nearly reduced Lottie to tears.

“You’re from the States, Florence?” The young girl asks, her eyes widening to reveal a shade of blue the exact same as her sisters.

“Yes, Georgia,” she smiles, taking another bite from the cucumber sandwich in her hand. Pinki had even gone to the effort of removing the crusts.

“Wow,” Lottie exclaims in a breathless wonder, as if Florence was from Antarctica, not simply the other side of the Atlantic. “And now you’re at Hogwarts. I can’t _wait_ to go to Hogwarts.”

“Don’t forget, Lottie, if you’re in Hufflepuff, I’ll disown you.”

“I’m _not_ going to be in Hufflepuff.”

The ten-year old girl manages to give her sister a glare that would put their mother to shame – or make her invariably proud. Florence cannot determine which.

“Oh, Hufflepuff isn’t so bad Lottie.”

“Maybe for you,” Lizzie snorts. “We Greengrass’s have a reputation to uphold.”

After several more finger sandwiches and refills of lemonade, they depart to their rooms to bathe and prepare for the evening. The bathroom in her chambers is a sea of white marble, the tub already filled with steaming water and the rich scent of herbs and oils. Slipping out of her sweaty riding clothes, Florence slides into the water, biting back a moan as the water steals across her skin, enveloping her in heat. She has not had the luxury of wallowing in a bath in the two months she has been at Hogwarts, and with a smirk to no one, she dunks her head under the surface, intending to relish in it.

Nearly an hour later Lizzie bursts into Florence’s room to find her swaddled in a white robe, her hair tied up in a towel, nestled on the sofa sipping coffee and reading a book. Looking up from the page on organizational charms, Florence notes Lizzie’s own robe – a delicate shade of yellow to match her golden room.

“I’m here to transform you,” Lizzie announces, and the smirk she gives Florence is pure evil. Pulling the book from her grasp, she takes Florence’s hand and leads her into the bathroom where she sets to the task of molding her hair into effortless curls that glisten as if under starlight, applying a thin layer of makeup to her cheeks, a series of powders to her lids until Florence’s eyes are like smoke and fire. When at last Lizzie is satisfied, she sets to work on herself, calling for a bottle of champagne for the two of them as they determine whether she should wear her hair in a low bun or curled similar to Florence’s. It is the silly, stress free conversation that Florence adores, content to drink wine and watch her already stunning friend convert herself into the closest thing she has ever seen to a living goddess. By the time Lizzie is finished, they are both decidedly tipsy and have to call Pinki back for another round of cucumber sandwiches.

They both dressed in simple, elegant black gowns as was the proceeding for tonight. Florence’s was a fine silk which hugged her narrow figured and pooled at the floor around her feet. Lizzie’s taffeta with a plunging neckline and full skirt that would twirl as she moved. They took in each other, one autumn, one winter, and satisfied that they could do nothing more to their appearances, Florence snagged the long fur shawl she had packed and followed Lizzie out the door of her room.

Moving towards the heart of the estate once more, Florence could feel the sick sensation of dread welling within her chest. She’d been to countless gala’s and parties – for debutantes or weddings or holidays or even just a party to have a party – but in those circumstances, she had known everyone, she had be someone to know. Now Lizzie was the girl to know, her mother being the hostess, and _she_ was no more than the out of town oddity. Florence didn’t know how to carry herself except to throw back her shoulders and allow the black rope of fur to hang from the bend in her elbows. However intimidated she may be, Florence would rather die than show it.

Their heels were the only sound on the stone floors, the racing in her heart matching the echoes around them, but as they at last drew near to the grand marble foyer, a rumble of voices could be heard. It swelled, the delicate humming of a four piece quartet milling in the background until the sound was near deafening.

“You look lovely,” Lizzie murmurs, turning to face Florence before they reach the grand staircase. It is one of the uncommon flashes of warmth from the typically subdued girl which only served to endear her further to Florence, the smile that stretched across her face so earnest that Florence felt the need to hug her. Conscious of her hair, she instead took Lizzie’s hand and squeezed it, returning the grin. “If you’re nervous, don’t be. You’ll be the most sought after girl here – you’re new and important and pretty.”

“Heavens, all of that coming from you!” Florence laughs. “That may be the case, but when they spot you next to me they’ll forget their minds I’m sure.”

“Well,” Lizzie says, her smile morphing into a smirk all the more vixen-like for the smokiness of her eyes, the red of her lips.

“I will have to sit with my parents during the meal, I’m sure you understand, but I’ve already told Philip he is under strict orders to find you and eat dinner with you.”

“You’ve thought of everything,” Florence gushes, because for all of Lizzie’s cold demeanors, she could truly be considerate when pressed.

“Yes,” she agrees. “ _And,_ I told Philip we would be coming down the stairs at around six thirty, which was ten minutes ago, so we shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

“You like a big entrance?”

“Well, it is my party.”

The two girls step out hand in hand onto the balcony overlooking the black and white checkered floor, but Florence cannot see the tiles for the sea of people swarming below. There are women, old and young, each dressed in fine black gowns, a few with accompanying hats in order to set themselves apart while the men are in simple, clean cut dress robes that fall to the floor and swirl like smoke around their forms. The front doors have been thrown open and six cauldrons of fire – one for each step – light the way for guests as they make their way in pairs or groups into the home. With a surge of adrenaline, Florence can make our their faces, see their her own wonder carved into their skin as they take in the dancing frescoes, the small army of platter carrying house elves with champagne and firewhisky and one drink that is black with purple flames that Florence has never seen before. It is chaos and majesty and _magic_ and Florence loves every bit of it.

Their entrance into the grand foyer has not gone unnoticed, nearly every head turning to face the two girls as they peer down upon the guests, the whispering only for the two black shrouded figures who’s features flicker in the light of the candle chandelier. Florence feels herself flush, but she tugs her shawl around her and rules in her face as her mother has taught her. She is an Allman, and she will honor her people.

“Pyrrhus is with Philip,” Lizzie whispers into Florence’s ear, and gesturing with a nod of her head, Florence locates a small grouping of young men gathered at the base of the stairs.

Philip has managed to balance the line of clean and poised while maintaining his characteristic softness, his usual smile plastered across his face as he catches Lizzie’s eye. Yet behind him, the black dress robes have only accented Pyrrhus’ size – the width of his shoulders, the near platinum shade of his hair. He too is smiling, but it is dark and burning and Florence feels a shiver slip down her spine. Beside her Lizzie leans upon the bannister, offering a small wave to the gathering of boys. Leonidas rolls his eyes – the Shafiq and Prewett girl resolutely looking anywhere but at the two girls garnering so much attention.

And then, as if her eyes are moved by some other force, Florence’s head turns back to the main entrance and _he_ is there.

Tom Riddle is the night incarnate, the exacting planes of his face dancing in firelight, the midnight of his eyes no more than black pits which Florence feels at this height she has no choice but to tumble into. Moving up the stairs in a brief lull of arrivals, his singular grace is predatory, the curve of his jaw a knife’s edge. Even from this distance, he is staring at her, and Florence knows his eyes are wider than they have ever been and she must be blushing or fainting or perhaps everything at once because he looks like sin embodied and there is an uncontrollable urge to rush to him that makes her feel frantic. His hair has been tamed, brushed and oiled behind his ears, his skin waxy underneath the yellow glow of the flames. There is a tightening somewhere low in Florence’s abdomen, a race of energy across her skin.

There is no one else like him, sharp, composed, and yet murky as the darkest waters. He is striking, swathed in black, towering over the average party goer as if they were nothing more than children. To call him beautiful would be to do him a disservice and Florence wants to hate him for what he does to her mind and the way he makes her forget everything - but she cannot, and staring down at Tom there is no one else, no sound, time ceasing it’s beating in the presence of the fluttering energy between their souls.

“I mean honestly, with the way you two look at each other, you should just get a room,” Lizzie whispers. Florence blinks several times in order to remember where and who she is – that she is not falling through the well of eternity in Tom Riddle’s gaze – and tears her eyes away from the enigmatic figure now sweeping across the floor to glare at Lizzie.

“Yes, well, I’m not the one with a whole hoard of boys waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.”

“I think you may be surprised,” Lizzie says, her smirk returning to her face, and then, as if her words were some kind of summoning, a voice loud as cannon fire sounds throughout the room.

“Florie! If you keep me waiting any longer you little minx I’m going to hex you!”

Florence is moving before she can even think, grabbing her gown in her fist and clinging to the railing so that she can keep her eyes fixed upon the man directly below her. She knows that face – it is her face. Sun weathered skin, a constellation of freckles under melting umber eyes, caramel hair that is mussed across his forehead as if he didn’t bother to brush it after getting out of the shower. And Florence _knows_ he did not brush it because it is Albion and he is beaming at her, hands clasped behind his back. Southern and family and the most welcome sight she has ever seen. When at last she reaches him, he lifts her from the ground, spinning her in a circle until she shrieks to be let down.

“Alb _what_ are you doing here!” She demands but she can’t stop laughing, taking in the tan of his skin, the smell of earth – _their_ earth – that clings to him even now on the other side of the globe.

“It is thanks to me, obviously,” the cool voice of Elizabeth Greengrass intercedes, the blond girl approaching and holding out her hand. Albion takes it and presses her knuckles to his lips and Florence thinks in that moment she could explode, because he is here and Lizzie has done this for her. Homesickness seems far away, the foolish expression of lesser people.

“Florie, you didn’t tell me your friend was so stunning in your letters,” Albion intones, letting his kiss linger longer than perhaps is necessary, but his smile is good natured and he’s already turned back to face Florence. Lizzie presses her hand against her stomach, a pink tinge slipping into her cheeks. _British sensibilities._ She was accustomed to her friends pining after Albion – he was strong from days in the field, cutting, masculine features composing his face, and possessing a reckless energy that manifested in nearly everything he did. It is why he had been in Wampus during his time at Ilvermorny: the house of the warrior.

“You’re sinful.”

“Yes, mother thinks so.”

“How did you get here?” Florence asks, because her mind has not stopped whirling. “I think I need a drink.”

“Gods, so do I,” Albion agrees.

“Let’s go collect the others and then we can move into the main salon. I hate standing in the entrance,” Lizzie commands. They follow willingly as she sweeps across the floor of her domain to where the gaggle of Slytherin seventh years is still gathered at the base of the other stairwell. Florence lags behind to talk to her brother.

“So how did you get here?” She pesters again.

“Well your friend Lizzie wrote to our house and said that father had turned down an invitation to Samhain because of harvest, but that the invitation was open to any other member of the family as a surprise to you if we could be spared for the evening,” Albion relays, his smile broadening as his head swivels, taking in the room with a cocked brow and predatory gleam. “Well you know mom, she was distraught to think that father had offered offense to some great family so she convinced Cliff to let me come for tonight.”

“Never thought I’d say thank God for mom, but thank God,” Florence laughs.

“Yeah, she’s going to be so mad she missed this,” he says, eyes raking up and down the figure of a woman to his right. Florence slaps him playfully on the stomach, bringing his attention back to her. They arrive at the gathering still talking, Florence reveling in the presence of someone with the slow, drawling accent of the South.

“Firstie,” Philip calls, stepping forward and pulling her into a hug.

“Philip! You look lovely,” she says, wrapping an arm around his neck. “This is my oldest brother Albion, the one that works with cauldrons?” The two men shake hands, both smiling good naturedly at each other, recognizing a common bond through Florence. Albion is a whole head taller than Philip, but seeing as he is taller than most men, it is nothing unusual. Avery, however, looks displeased at he takes in the newcomer who challenges him both in looks and stature.

“And this is Pyrrhus and Leonidas,” Florence continues, moving around the circle to the two Slytherins who are eyeing Albion with obvious distaste. His smile widens, umber eyes narrowing.

“Pleasure, boys,” he croons, dragging out the last word. Florence has to force herself not to roll her eyes as they attempt to crush each other’s fingers in a handshake. Moving on, she hastily introduces Druella and Teresa who are blushing furiously at Albion’s rugged appearance, and then there is Tom who has crept up to stand beside Florence without her notice.

“And this is Tom Riddle,” she says, laying her hand on Tom’s upper arm before she can think, his eyes meeting hers with that wide, blank expression he has been giving her all evening that makes her feel like she is falling. Even through his dress robes Tom’s body is like fire, and she pulls her arm away as if shocked because she has broken some sort of code they have been following until now. She has never touched him before. He has never touched her. They have not spoken in three weeks and now she has touched him. Something within her chest seems to ignite.

“Tom, this is my brother Albion.”

They greet each other coolly, Albion glancing between Florence and Riddle for a moment before snagging his sister’s arm and announcing to the group that he is going to get a drink, pulling her away before she can truly consider what she has done, the law of the universe she has rewritten. Lizzie agrees heartily, taking Avery’s arm and following Albion’s charge into the ballroom. Florence can feel a particular gaze on the bare skin of her back as they parade forward. _I touched him_.

The room has been magically enhanced to hold four long tables, each covered in white table cloths and gold rimmed china that glistens under the light. There are arrangements of roses everywhere, white as Lottie claimed they would be – down the center of the tables, on pedestals in every corner, petals even falling from the ceiling like snowflakes. It is like the austerity of winter without the frigidity, fires burning in each of the massive hearths, two chandeliers casting the paintings of Olympus and Hades upon the ceiling in dancing light.

“Oh drinks,” Albion cheers, stepping forward and snagging a firewhisky for himself, a flute of champagne for Florence. “Bottoms up,” he calls, upending his glass and swallowing the amber liquid in one, heaping gulp. With a shiver and a grin, he replaces the empty chalice onto the tray and looks pointedly at Florence’s own drink which is still untouched.

“Don’t leave me hanging here,” he says. “I don’t know anyone.”

“Well you’ve met everyone I know,” Florence snaps, but she smiles and takes a long sip anyways.

“Oh, there’s my mother, come on Pyrrhus you’ll need to say hello,” Lizzie says, holding her own glass of champagne and pulling the blonde giant along beside her. Florence watches them go, turning back to find Philip gazing after the pair, his usually sunny expression somewhat faded.

“So you’re in Ravenclaw too?” Albion asks Philip, drawing him into their group as they begin to circle the room. Leonidas and Tom have disappeared along with the other Slytherin girls, a welcome relief for Florence’s mind which is still struggling to grasp all of the surprises she has undergone in such a brief amount of time, namely the physical shock that had abounded through her body when she’d come into contact with Tom.

“Yes, I’ve been having to babysit your sister all semester.”

“She’s a pain, there’s no denying it,” Albion teases, snagging another drink from a passing house elf – this time one of the black one’s with purple flames. “Have you seen her do any magic yet?”

“Florence asked to practice disarming spells on me a few weeks ago but I told her I valued my limbs too much to be her practice dummy.”

“Wise decision,” Albion says and they cheers and take extended sips of their drinks. Florence can feel her face coloring.

“Need I remind you, _Albion_ , that it was you, not me, who set an entire field of Dittany on fire last year even though _you_ have a full seven years of magical education,” she hisses, finishing her own drink. Philip’s eyes widen, Albion bellows in laughter so loudly that several heads turn to stare.

“Oh I’d forgotten that,” he says between chuckles, his drink threatening to spill. “I was testing some cauldron designs while I was home and during the heat resistant stage I got a bit carried away. Dad was _so_ mad.”

“Oi, there’s my father, let’s go this way,” Philip suddenly calls, and they follow without question as he leads them onto the back patio where several cauldrons full of fire are sending sparks into the night air. Florence only just manages to catch a glimpse of an elder gentleman with thinning sandy hair and a severe, thickset brow before they are alone and the rumbling of voices comes from behind them.

Leaning against the balcony Florence allows herself to be swept away by conversation between Philip and Albion who are both good natured and genuine. For nearly an hour they discuss the people they can see turning around the room as they pass by the door, rating dresses and hats and the number of drinks they think each husband has finished based on the sweat on his upper lip, the redness of his cheeks.

“Oh easily on his fifth,” Albion bellows as one cherry faced man passes by, finishing his own fifth drink without a care in the world. He has always consumed alcohol like a bull, with no concern for his body, his mind, or the situation. Albion is usually large enough to pull it off.

“Oh god, his wife is wearing a dead pheasant on her head.” Philip mimes barfing into his sleeve as Florence cackles between them, the pleasant glow of alcohol coursing through her veins. She’s been catching looks through the windows from unknown young men and it makes her feel light and powerful and Albion is here and Philip too and the world is somehow momentarily bright and small, the wonders of magic and companionship and family convalescing in this one space.

When the bell rings for dinner they select a table at random, Albion seated across from her and Philip where he can conveniently strike up conversation with the stunning, auburn haired witch beside him. To her credit, the witch seems as equally pleased with this turn of events as Albion. As Philip pulls her chair back so that Florence can seat herself, she does a cursory scan of the table. _Not that I am looking for anyone_ she tells herself, but there is a hollow feeling when she does not locate the chocolate waves of Tom Riddle’s head anywhere in her vicinity. It is like he set her on fire and then disappeared once more into the night, a cruelty enacted upon her in retribution for her treatment. The thought brings back the familiar ache she has grown accustomed too in the past weeks.

“Hello,” a merry voice beside her says, and turning Florence sees the Gryffindor boy that Philip had been seated beside at Slughorn’s party now beside her. He has a narrow face and dark, shaggy hair that covers his forehead, his mouth warped into a lopsided grin. “Fleamont Potter, nice to meet you.” They press their glasses together in a form of greeting.

“Pleasure. I’m Florence Allman.”

“Yes I know. Slughorn wouldn’t hush up about you or your father after you left his party. Nice thing you did for Radella,” he adds, reaching for his water goblet.

“Oh, it was no trouble. She’s a good friend of mine.”

“Mine as well. If you hadn’t taken care of her I was planning on hexing Avery into next May,” he admits with a dark look to no one in particular. Florence decides instantly, much as she had with Radella, that she likes him.

“Yes, well, Avery is an idiot.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

“Is Radella here?” Florence asks, craning to peer around the room once more, this time in search of a mess of curly hair. Beside her Fleamont laughs.

“At this pure-blood gathering? Merlin, no. I’m surprised we even get an invitation not being sacred twenty-eight and all.” Fleamont shrugs and then leans forward. “Burke, have you asked your father to add us to the list yet?” Florence turns to look at the sandy haired boy only to find that his face is tomato red.

“Oh shut it, Potter,” he grunts, taking a deep sip from his firewhisky.

“Excuse me, can you explain?” Florence asks, lost as she looks from boy to boy.

“Philip hasn’t told you? His dad Caractacus and Cantankerous Nott wrote the dang list,” Fleamont chuckles. “But don’t let that dissuade you from Philly over here – s’not his fault his dad is ugly _and_ mean.”

Florence glances at Philip who is smiling stiffly and slides her hand under the table to rest it on his thigh. She recalls the limited information that she has of his father, of his shame mentioning the storefront they ran. Giving his leg a squeeze, she returns to her drink and finishes it.

The meal passes in easy conversation after it’s somewhat rocky start. There are more courses than Florence has fingers, individual cheese plates and salad with seared fish and bowls of rich, French onion soup that scalds the roof of her mouth. House elves appear before each round and discuss wines that are to be served, pouring a new red or white or rose or sparkling, outlining qualities which in theory compliment the meal, but all Florence can care about is the flavor exploding across her tongue. Their entrée is wild boar, follow by a lemon sherbet and crystal bowls of water to wash your fingers in. During dessert, a troupe of fire dancers arrives, breathing flames and eyes red with a wild energy that seems to resonate with the crowd. There is a swelling of excitement as the last dishes are cleared away because at last it is night and the stars are out and it is time for Samhain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up... Tom's POV:) 
> 
> I was glad to introduce you to one of the Allman family - Albion is such a trouble maker it needed to be him first. Thank you for all of the wonderful comments, kudos, and subscriptions. Hope everyone is still enjoying!
> 
> Also, I hope that everyone is staying safe wherever you are in the world. Please continue to look out for yourself and others during these crazy times!


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

“But in a solitary life, there are rare moments when another soul dips near yours, as stars once a year brush the earth.”

― Madeline Miller, Circe 

Tom didn’t necessarily mean to follow Florence out from the dining hall onto the grounds, but she’d _touched_ him and it felt like there was some kind of leash from her figure to his, stringing him along behind as she flowed from one space to the next.

She’d touched him. It had been so brief he’d tried to convince himself that it had not happened, but it _had_ and now he couldn’t stop his eyes from seeking out her silk clad frame, the exposed skin of her back, the fur wrap that trailed around her waist like a line of smoke. He wanted to trail his finger down the brown of her spinal column, to run his knuckles along the line of her jaw, to force her to look at him and never look away. It was galling, really, that she could ignore him for three weeks and then one look, one touch could bring forth all of this _weakness_. Florence Allman made him weak, and yet he did not know how to stop it.

But oh what a look it had been. He’d arrived in a separate carriage than the Malfoy’s with whom he was staying. Abraxas had explained that they were planning to arrive early as some foolish showing of solidarity with their hosts, but Tom could only handle so much pure-blood preening and had declined the offer to ride with them, instead using one of the Malfoy’s many carriages to arrive well after the party had begun. He had been moving up the stairs into the estate, ignoring the open mouthed stares he was receiving from women old enough to be his mother (although not unappreciative – Tom enjoyed the austerity his dress robes gave to his somber appearance), when he had walked right into the heat of her gaze quite on accident.

Leaning over the balcony like she was sitting in a booth at the opera, her hair fell over one of her shoulders, almost auburn in the flickering candlelight, one tail of her fur stole hanging down over the bannister. Tom’s mouth went dry as he recalled the foolish stories Mrs. Cole had spewed to him in the orphanage – tales of princes and frogs and peas and wicked witches of the west and yet here was Florence, swathed in black, her eyes smoking like embers and he felt like no more than a young man, begging her to let down her hair, to pull him up to the light.

Meeting her gaze through the milieu of the crowd, he was a supplicant before her alter – a weary traveler who had found the ambrosia of the gods. She was perhaps Hecate, goddess of witchcraft, or maybe Eris, goddess of discord, for there was no name except chaos to describe the frantic energy that pulsed through him. Tom was so distraught that he missed the way her eyelids drooped, her mouth parted as if with a sigh, the starvation that was written into Florence’s features that was surely as desperate as his own. For one moment they were only two and then she had broken the spell, fracturing time as she ran to her brother, leaving Tom to jostle amongst the people as he made his way to where Avery and Lestrange stood.

Her brother had been a presence he wasn’t expecting. Tall, athletic, just another Pyrrhus Avery with an American accent. He was cocky and buoyant and if it hadn’t been for Florence’s obvious adoration of the young man, Tom wouldn’t have introduced himself. Seated at the table directly behind Florence so that her wandering eyes could not catch his own, he’d watched mildly impressed as the Albion boy had downed drink after drink without any apparent effect. Tom had nursed two firewhiskies – the magic he would be performing for his Samhain sacrifice would require a sharp mind, and he did not enjoy the loss of control associated with alcohol.

As they moved outside Druella Shafiq hovered beside Tom, becoming more and more intoxicated by the hour, something that would have been annoying in its own right but was now downright bothersome as her lowered inhibitions increased her staring. Druella had expressed her interest in Tom many times throughout the years, making snide little comments that he supposed she thought were compliments. _My parents won’t care that you’re half blood, Riddle. You’re so brilliant it doesn’t matter._ He was a Gaunt and a Peverell and a Slytherin and she’d had the nerve to tell him his blood didn’t matter? Her open-mouthed gaze sent a ripple of fury through him as he _again_ ripped his eyes from the caramel curls before him.

“Should we go stand by the Greengrass’s, Riddle?” She asks, her slurred voice struggling with the double _ss’s_ in the hosting family’s name. He tamps down the urge to hex her.

“You go,” he commands, glancing down at her so that all at once his height is his friend, looming over her frail frame. Druella gulps audibly. “If you see Avery, Lestrange, or Nott, send them too me.”

And then he is gone, at last free from her bothersome attention to pursue his target through the gardens and across the grass. Florence too had drunk her fair share of alcohol, but like her brother, it seems to have no effect on her as she walks toward the three massive oak trunks that would be the kindling for the fire. In one hand she had gathered the tail of her dress so that Tom could catch flashes of her calves, the exposed skin sending an odd burning sensation across the back of his neck.

“I can’t believe you were flirting with that girl during dinner,” Florence hisses, Tom barely catching her words as she slaps her brother on the shoulder. He must remain at a certain distance, although he does not believe that the chances of them turning to find him there are high in their inebriated state.

“What did you expect? She was stunning, and besides I’ll never see her again,” Albion replies, clearly waving off Florence’ reproach.

“It doesn’t matter,” Florence says and Tom smirks to himself because he can hear her eyes rolling back into her skull, even if he cannot see them. “You’re about to be engaged you can’t keep acting like this.”

“You sound like mother.”

“No need to insult me.”

“Well I’m not the one who has a sallow faced, off-putting stalker,” Albion jeers as if he has caught Florence in a crude act. Ice closes around Tom’s lungs and he presses his ears forward to listen.

“What? Who on earth are you talking about? Leonidas? He’s just an acquaintance I barely –” she begins, but her voice is shrill and Tom knows she is lying because he knows her every tone. Albion interrupts.

“No, not that one. The other one,” he says, missing a step and slamming into her side, threatening to topple Florence over. Tom has the strange urge to run to her side which he quickly quells. “The tall, skinny one.”

“Tom,” Florence clarifies, and her voice is like frost and Tom does not like the way she says it now, devoid of emotion, like he is a footnote and not the main event. He wants to throw himself between the two bickering siblings, to thrust his wand under Albion’s throat and insure that the boy never forgets him, wants to turn to Florence and make her say his name in the way that sets his ever nerve on fire.

“ _That one_! He was following us around the salon until Philip dragged us outside. You didn’t notice cause you were too busy looking for Philip’s dad.”

Tom can recall the exact moment when the Allman boy had locked eyes with him, the ripple of distaste that had passed across his offensive and sportsman features. He’d tried to crush Tom’s hand when they’d shaken, leering at him to some lesser effect seeing as they were the same height. Men like Albion Allman were all the same – accustomed to wielding their status until they forgot that they were nothing more than just another average man. Tom was looking forward to his offering, when all of these fools would see firsthand how unparalleled he was.

He slips into the crowd a quarter of the way around the circle from Florence and her motley crew of Potter, Burke, and Albion where he can watch her face with ease. Already he can taste the metal on the air, the aura of magic that is blistering with heat, and yet for the first time he is distracted by her presence, the nagging urge to move towards her through the night.

Cadmus Greengrass steps forward at that moment, his pinched features more severe under the moonlight as he wields his wand like a ceremonial sword. Cadmus is no remarkable wizard, but it takes no great skill to create fire.

“I welcome each and every one of you to our estate this evening,” he begins in the clipped voice Tom has grown accustomed too from Samhain’s past. “My wife, Harmonia, and our daughters, Elizabeth and Lottie, are honored by your presence and your participation in this storied tradition. Wizard-kind is made stronger, more unified through our institutions, and it is our customs which we will pass down into a new age.”

There is a smattering of applause at his words which Tom does not join in on. He did not believe in false praise. To his left he spots Florence whose hands remain resolutely at her side, a small wrinkle across her face.

“In the spirit of Samhain, I offer this annual fire on behalf of the Greengrass family. Any individual wishing to make their own offerings may step forward one by one at this time.”

Cadmus bends low before whipping his arm around his head and pointing his wand at the three imposing tree trunks, a jet of flame whistling from the end of his weapon and igniting the center of the logs after a moment of intense heat. Around Tom many people look away, the sudden surge in temperature burning their eyes. Tom leans in, the flare in his power tangible, as if he could drink the magic from the flames themselves.

There is an order to the offerings, Tom learned this at his first Samhain three years ago. Had the prime minister been in attendance, he or she would have been the first to approach the fire. As it were, Leonard Spencer-Moon – the current minister – was a half-blood, and while wildly popular with the average wizarding community, he was disliked by the pure-blooded families who viewed his ascension to power as at the cost of one of their own: the current head of the DMLE Hector Fawley who had suffered a vote of no confidence only a few years prior. Spencer-Moon had declined his invitation, and so it was Malfoy Senior who stepped forward after Cadmus had returned to the circle, his platinum hair glistening against his robes as he moved forward.

With a smirk that would make any pure-blooded mother proud, Malfoy Senior turns so that the flames are behind him, revealing a wooden chest in his hand. Lifting the lid, there is an audible gasp as the crowd takes in the tiara – which can only be goblin made – laying upon the velvet cushion. Tom’s face does not twitch, more annoyed by the material cares of the people surrounding him than the idea that the Malfoy’s had enough goblin made jewelry to throw a diamond tiara into the Samhain fire. It was a farce of an offering, made not in the honor of magic, but for the point of glorifying the giver. Yet for as much as the old families may have forgotten, Tom knew.

Malfoy throws the entire box into the fire. Immediately Tom can feel it, the heaving of power that snakes through the clearing like streams of lava, intertwining with the magic within him. Tom closes his eyes and inhales deeply, the metallic scent of the air sending his body into overdrive. When he opens them again, he is staring at Florence, her features alive and sparking like the flames before her, a frenzied look on her face that he has never seen before but he wants to see again and again and again. He remembers her words, seemingly ages ago in the library… _But there is also magic in giving names, in the gift of language and words and the correlation between the act and the words themselves…_ He wonders if she knows what the others have forgot – that there is power in offerings just as she had claimed their was magic in name giving. The look on her face leads him to believe she does.

The next to step forward is Hector Fawley, who gives a few words on behalf of his family, perhaps trying to endear himself once more in the hope of a re-election. _Dolt_. And then the Avery’s come into the light, a jump upward in order that causes audible grumbling from the crowd, but Tom knows what they do not. That the Greengrass’s are endeavoring to honor the family before announcing the betrothal. They will not give away their prize mare to just any young man, pure-blood or otherwise.

Afterward they move through families with ease, most sacred twenty-eight with the occasional key Ministry official thrown in. Around him he can hear the rustling of cloaks, the muttering of voices as they summon new drinks, but Tom has eyes for nothing but the fire, the surging of energy that makes him feel as if he is burning and freezing at all once. When at last it is his turn to step forward, Tom does not even care that over half of the people assembled have already gone, that they have dishonored him by placing his offering so late into the ceremony. His magic is practically exploding from his body from the influx he has received, and with a savage grin, he steps into the ring. _When I am finished_ he thinks _they will not think to forget me ever again._

Year after year Tom has watched the offerings and never participated, researching the ceremony, the thousands of years of tradition. Once Samhain had been a mighty renewal of magic, but much like pure-blooded might, it was only a former shadow of itself, weakened by the offerings misgiven, the showmanship. But Tom knew that a gift of magic could double the power of the fire, resulting in strengthening the giver in turn. _To receive power, one must give some first_ he understands.

Pulling his wand from his pocket, he holds out his empty hand, performing a small bit of wandless magic so that a flame appears, cupped in his palm. There is a ripple of appreciation for the display. Tom smirks.

Without a moment of pretense he begins to move, tossing the flame high into the air above him. He fixates his wand upon the spot of light, feeling the connection between the magic within him and the miniscule heat source. Using his wand as the conduit, he stretches the flame, in his mind reciting the Norse spell he has translated and updated for his purposes, the words instructing the creation of life-saving fire. The spit of fire mutates, first into a thin rope, flames twisting in upon themselves in various shades of blue and green and purple – their heat so potent that they have faded into dark colors. As he works, the band of fire thickens, and then sprouts, tongues jetting down, broadening and stretching. There are legs appearing, a snout with fangs like steak-knives, wings thrusting into the air, blooming like rose petals.

The crowd is gasping around Tom. From his position before the fire he can see them staggering away, making room for the dragon that he is birthing, one that has eyes of ember and a tongue of smoke and which roars with the heat of a thousand suns. Tom can feel every muscle in his body straining as the beast flies through the air above them, using every ounce of his ability to control the blue flamed creature that is of his own making. It is one thing to transfigure a living thing into another, but fire exists in the liminal space between life and death. To form it, to shape it into the farce of a living being requires magic no other present could muster – not in a hundred years, and Tom has done in nonverbally.

With a roar that splits the air like lightning, Tom lets out a snarl of his own, setting his feet and pointing with his wand towards the fire he’s now turned to face. The dragon shoots into the sky, a blue comet, wings consuming the air to leave behind a trail of dark, black smoke before looping and diving head first into the burning trees. There is an explosion of sparks, blue clashing with red, a final roar, and then a blast of air that nearly knocks Tom over as the magic of his offering crashes into the magic of Samhain. His body shudders for a brief moment, and then he can feel it, the influx of strength renewing him, flowing through him, stretching his greatness on into infinity.

When the fire has returned to its original size, there is a pause of silence, and then an explosion of applause. Tom stares at the fire for a moment more, basking in his achievement, before turning to return to his place on the outer ring. They will never know what he has done – that he has used their ceremony to make himself stronger. But all the same, they _should_ be clapping.

As he walks, his eyes stray where they always do, meeting with the still frenzied stare of Florence Allman. The lurch in his chest nearly unbalances him because she is grinning at him, shark-like and canine and her eyes have narrowed as if he is a target and she is the arrow. He does not know if someone has ever looked at him with such hunger. Without having to ask, Tom knows she has felt it, the power of his offering, the meaning of his gift. Florence’s eyes do not leave him until he is resolutely back in the crowd.

The crowd is rejuvenated once more, Tom’s display earning him a few slaps on the back which he politely shakes off, and one kiss on the cheek from a disgustingly intoxicated older witch with a heaving chest and running mascara. He is attempting to wipe his face when none other than Elizabeth Greengrass steps into the ring, a small, black box held in her grasp.

“Florence,” she calls, her voice carrying despite the apparent lack of effort. Tom’s chest tightens, and he turns to see Florence hand her stole to Philip, consenting to a kiss on the forehead from Albion before stepping forward to meet her friend. Outlined by the fire, Tom has the strange feeling that she is perfectly comfortable here in a way that those assembled pinning for prestige are not. Florence takes the box from her companion, the two girls smiling thinly at one another before the Greengrass heir melts away and Florence is left alone.

Tom attempts to ignore the beating in his chest as she sets the box on the ground, lifting her dress and tying the silk of her gown in a knot above her knees. Behind him, one women snorts at the impropriety. Tom ignores her, eyes glued to the tone of her calves, the pink of her heels, the knots of her spine as they bend, casting shadows like mountains across her back in the flickering firelight. Her skin is like mahogany in the night, yet Tom is so transfixed by the desire to know what she will do next that the familiar urge to touch Florence does not bring with it the usual surge of self-loathing.

With her dress secured, Florence at last lifts the lid from the box, using both of her hands to lift a small plant from the recesses of the case. Tom knows what it is without having to think, the distinctive silver wax on the peculiar round leaves a dead giveaway. _Dittany_. He understands now what Clifford Allman sent for all those weeks ago.

Florence kneels on the ground, using her fingers like a common gardener to dig a hole in the ground before placing the tiny sapling into the divot, covering it once more. Around Tom the grumbling is growing louder, impatient for what she will do, confusion ringing out in more than one voice. Tom wants to scream at them for silence, to berate them for their mistrust. He does not know what will come next, but he has such an intense suspicion that he feels like he might explode in anticipation.

When Florence stands, Tom can see the shift in her demeanor, her shoulders thrown back, her hands outstretched before her like she carries the night itself, so that by the time she begins to chant, he feels like a bowstring prepared to snap.

Her voice is plain and keening, her throat warbling around various notes as her song spreads into the air around her. One moment she is loud, the next soft, her song tuneless and yet mournful, curling into a hollow in Tom’s chest he did not know was there until her chant began. He does not know the language, nor its meaning, but the reaction he feels is immediate and visceral.

It is like _nothing_ he has ever felt before.

Like fire and ice and magic, magic, _magic_. Magic ancient and unbridled and _alive_.

The air around him seems to crackle, his mouth so full of the metallic taste of enchantment he wonders if perhaps he has bitten his cheek, if he is bleeding and it is iron on his tongue. The power that registers across his skin he has never felt before, dwarfing his display to the likes of lighting a match. Florence has begun to move, her bare feet pounding the earth in an unknown rhythm, her hands reaching from her toes to the heavens, her eyes closed as she circles the sapling she has planted.

Tom feels the earth beneath his feet warm, the air itself vibrate, and then there is thunder, a flash of lightning so bright it is purple. The world itself seems to be breathing, surging with the rifts and valleys of Florence’s chant and Tom is riveted, unable to look away even as the heat reaches an unbearable level.

And then suddenly Florence’s voice changes, and she is speaking in a frenzy, as if the words were tongues of flame she could wield at will, the pounding of her feet wild. The effect is immediate, and as she moves, the dittany plant begins to glow silver – its branches lengthen, its leaves broaden, the trunk crackles and snaps because it is _growing._ Tom crouches to press his hand into the soil, to feel the reverberations of her magic because Florence has somehow altered the very laws of growth – enhancing the process, strengthening it, molding it to her desire. It is magic sorcerers scour the earth a thousand times over for, yet Florence need only sing and the elements themselves obey her command. And the power it has registered, it does not come from the slight figure before him, but seemingly from all around.

His vision flickers red.

He does not understand how she is doing it or even what it is that she is doing, but he understands now that she is power.

His chest may rip in two because watching her he has never felt more starved in his life. She can move mountains and cast lightning and Tom wants to run to her and knot his fingers in her hair and suck the breath from her lungs, to carve his name into her skin, to intertwine his magic with hers.

At last, _at last_ he knows he was not foolish for desiring her, if anything, he was foolish for thinking her unremarkable. _Unremarkable?_ Florence is divinity and magic incarnate and the origins of the elements and he does not care now for anything accept that she become his. She _will_ become his. Her hair is floating and through her fawn waves purple bolts of electricity can be seen and Tom does not think she will ever be more beautiful than she is now – wreathed in power like Morgana reborn.

When at last Florence finishes singing Tom has not noticed because his breathing is so erratic, his pulse like gunfire. Standing before the Dittany plant which is truly more of a tree now because the trunk is as thick as she is, it’s silvery, sage branches extending far above her head, Florence appears small, her figure hunched in exhaustion. She is crying and Tom does not know why but he wants to wipe the tears from her face, to _kiss_ her damn it and to claim her in front of everyone assembled.

“Albion,” she calls, and her voice trembles.

The brother appears at her side, pressing his lips again to her forehead, lifting his wand into the air. Muttering a spell Tom cannot hear, the land shakes and then the tree is lifting from the ground, floating through the air and finally cast into the flames.

Tom nearly blacks out when the resulting wave of magic crashes into him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Tom has at last seen what Florence can do:) Hope this was a satisfying method for displaying her power. I've loved toying with the idea that Tom is strong where Florence is weak and vice versa. They make such pleasant foils in that manner since they are both the same in their drive for knowledge and control over their fates/futures.
> 
> Anyways, thank you for all of the responses! I always love to hear from you so feel free to leave a comment. Everyone is wonderful and I hope staying safe right now. Xx


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big chapter here folks...
> 
> Please read the notes at the end:)

Chapter 15

“I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.”  
― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

It is all Florence can manage to make it back to the estate. She is sluggish, her mind is numb between her exertion and resulting cacophony of wild, assaulting magic. Albion and Philip walk before her, discussing their favorite offerings while Florence allows herself to be led, wrapping her stole around her for a modicum of warmth. In the early hours of the morning, as drained as she is, the air is like stepping into the artic.

Yet for as cold as she feels, Florence cannot deny the oozing of pride running through her, the trickle of magic which is stronger from her offering. She had reshaped Dittany – a plant meant for healing – and offered it in honor of the spirits, to strengthen them, to strengthen her family. She had sung the song many times before, during the planting season they would dance for saplings to take root, to find nutrients in the soil, but they never expedited the growing process so that the Dittany matured in one day – let alone a few minutes. It had left her drained and yet _glowing_ because her gift had been received and the Samhain fire had intensified, the renewal of magic abounding.

Closing her eyes she could still see the flicker of flames, hear the roar of a blue tongued dragon, feel the heat of its wings. Tom Riddle had understood Samhain too – he’d mastered fire, that notoriously tricky substance which if left alone or mismanaged for even a moment could devour everything in its path. He’d _transfigured_ it, a task not even the most talented wizards undertook lightly, and he’d done it _nonverbally_. Florence felt a stirring in her stomach, the yawning of some horrible fanged monster threatening to consume her from the inside because he’d been _beautiful_ while he’d performed and he’d been terrifying and it had made her feel upended with desire. A master at his craft, his hands – his hands that made everything inside of Florence tighten – flowing through the air, fire itself his humble servant.

Tom had conjured a dragon and had gifted magic itself to Samhain and he had done it with only his own core magic. Tom had conjured a dragon and Florence had forgotten her anger because he was _miraculous_ – his magic leaving a taste of iron so strong across her tongue, the burning on her skin so consuming that she wondered if he was not perhaps a deity.

Tom had conjured a dragon made of magic itself and she’d decided that he would be hers. Florence had come to Hogwarts to learn magic and Tom _was_ magic and she would have him.

Florence is so lost in her memory of Tom’s offering that she almost trips up the stairs to the Greengrass’s back balcony. With a small sigh, she grabs the train of her dress with the hand holding her shoes and claws her way up the stairs, her limbs heavy as boulders. Philip and Albion have made their way into the main salon before her, she can vaguely register that they are discussing the rules of Quidditch – a game which Florence neither understands nor cares to.

In the entrance hall Philip bids them farewell with a final handshake for Albion, a kiss on the cheek and an _until tomorrow_ for Florence before wading out into the night. Florence and Albion linger on the top step, watching silently as partygoers make their exits, the cauldrons of fire burning low beneath the stars as if even the flames themselves are exhausted. Florence can relate.

“You did well, Florie,” Albion at last says, turning to smile down at her. For all of his masculine airs, he can still soften like butter left under a hot sun, and Florence grins at him lazily because she is too tired to speak. His words nestle in her chest. Her heart swells. “Dad would have been proud, Owen too.”

“You’ll tell everyone I miss them?” Florence asks. There is something caught in her throat and she is unable to say anything further.

“Of course, and I’ll tell them you managed to keep your drinking up with me.”

“Mom will be horrified.”

“Mom’s always horrified. She’ll be so jealous she missed this though,” Albion confirms. They pause as they both consider the truth in these words.

“Good luck with the international portkey,” Florence replies eventually.

“Yeah, it leaves in a few hours at eight a.m. so I probably better get a few hours of shut-eye before reporting to the ministry,” Albion tells her. “Can’t wait to see you for the holidays, and invite some of your new friends. Especially the pretty one.”

Florence rolls her eyes but she does not have the energy to slap Albion. Instead they embrace, arms circling each other in a chokehold, and then Albion is off, his muscular frame bouncing down the stairs with undeniable energy even at this late – or early – hour. Florence stands on the steps watching him until she hears the _pop_ of apparition and he is gone. For once she is thankful for her exhaustion, that her body is simply too tired to muster tears.

The halls are empty, her bare feet silent upon the stone as she makes her way to bed, not even bothering to bathe. Slipping out of her dress and under the covers in nothing but her underwear, Florence is asleep before her head even hits the pillow, her dreams already flying away upon the back of a blue dragon with a voice like thunder and midnight eyes that devour.

.

.

.

When she awakes the next day light is streaming in through large French windows, dusting the back of her eyelids yellow, warming her bare skin. The mattress is as soft as a cloud, the sheets across her skin like gentle caresses and Florence wonders why she had to awake at all from her heavenly bliss.

After a moment, as her consciousness begins to sharpen, there is a gentle pattering of feet across the marble floors, and rolling onto her back, she spots a tiny bald head pushing a gold cart up to the edge of the bed, a silver covered platter atop it. Florence’s stomach rumbles and she smiles, resting upon her elbow as the house elf stops beside the bed.

“Missus Harmonia has sent Pinki to deliver the Allman girl her breakfasts,” the house elf informs her with a slight bow.

“Thank you, Pinki, honey,” Florence coos, lifting the lid off of the platter to reveal fruit and toast and jams of every berry imaginable. There is an empty mug and a steaming pitcher of coffee accompanied by another sweating pitcher of ice water. “Coffee,” Florence groans, sitting up and reaching for the beverage. “You’re an absolute angel, Pinks.”

The house elf visibly colors, bows once more, and then disappears with a _crack_ , leaving Florence to help herself to the tray. Her stomach seems to be eating itself now that she is fully awake despite the enormous meal she had consumed the day before, and with relish she samples everything before her. The coffee warms her to the very tip of her toes.

It is just as she is finishing her last bite of toast that the doors fly open and Lizzie appears, swathed in her plush yellow robe, hair still damp from a bath.

“Good morning, lazy,” Lizzie drawls but her eyes are warm and she is smiling at Florence from across the room. “I see Pinki has been here.”

“Yes,” Florence confirms, patting the bed beside her in an invitation for Lizzie to join her. “That elf is an angel.”

“Don’t go complimenting him too much – it’ll go to his head,” Lizzie warns, laying across the blue comforter like an old Egyptian queen.

“What time is it?” Florence asks, refilling her coffee and polishing it off with a splash of cream.

“Nearly one. Lottie woke me up about an hour ago to run through today’s schedule with me.”

“And?”

“Family photos in the drawing room at four thirty, light d’ourvres at five, and guests will start to arrive at six. You won’t need to be ready until after six though since you won’t be participating in photos.”

“Did you have fun last night?”

“Oh yes,” Lizzie gushes. “Except that during dinner Hector Fawley would _not_ hush about his hopes to be reelected Minister. I was about to do my head in…”

Florence listens in amused silence with an occasional gasp or chuckle at the appropriate moment as Lizzie describes the various dramas that unfolded the night before that Florence had missed. Who’s husbands had been overserved – or wife – and which offerings were considered less than appropriate.

“You and Riddle really enthralled with your practical magic,” Lizzie states after nearly half an hour of monologuing. “My father was very impressed, he said demonstrations had gone out of vogue for a while but that he suspects you two will have set a new standard for next year.”

“It’s a shame I won’t be here for a repeat performance,” Florence jaunts.

“Trying to get out of England already?”

“Just missing home,” Florence admits, and then she takes Lizzie’s hand. “And thank you for surprising me with Albion. It was so good to see him, even if he is an idiot.”

“He’s handsome,” Lizzie laughs, her lips curling into a sneer.

“Yes, he thinks very _highly_ of your looks as well,” Florence goads. “But he’s about to be engaged so you’ll have to look elsewhere.” Lizzie looks out the window at this comment before answering.

“He’s what – twenty-five? Isn’t that a bit late to get engaged?” Lizzie asks, and there is a neutrality to her voice that Florence does not recognize.

“Yeah twenty-five, and no not really. Girls usually debut in the South at seventeen or eighteen, but they wait to see which boys become dependable young men before proposals start to go out.” Lizzie nods.

“So you’ll be eligible after your debut this spring, but you won’t marry for a while?”

“I’d assume so. Besides, whoever I want to marry has to win over my father first, and that will be a _nightmare,_ bless his heart.” Florence shakes her head, smiling to herself as she pictures a faceless man trembling before the towering figure of Clifford Allman. “Albion is going to ask his childhood sweetheart Margaret Calhoun to marry him later this month I suspect. She’s actually a year older than him, but she lives on a farm in Spectre. Really old Georgia family.”

“Well I’ll except an invitation to the wedding.”

“Obviously you’ll be my plus one, Lizzie.”

Their conversation continues into the bathroom as Florence draws a bath and Lizzie lounges on the day sofa. The water is scalding and fresh and Florence scrubs away at the dirt on the soles of her feet, the layer of grime that accumulated during the night from ash and sweat and magic. There are oils of every scent available to her, but Lizzie suggests a gentle floral bottle and Florence complies, peppering her skin and hair with the perfume.

By the time she is cleaned, Lizzie must depart to get ready and Florence has time to sit before the fire and read. Pinki returns to light the fire in Florence’s room, bearing yet another tray of finger sandwiches and sparkling water.

.

.

.

It is Fleamont Potter who watches Florence descend down the stairs that evening, his face cracking into a lopsided grin as they spot each other through the crowd. He is dressed in violently purple dress robes that clash horribly with his shaggy, black hair, but based upon the other garish colors and patterns the men are wearing, Fleamont seems almost subdued by comparison.

“You look wonderful, Florence,” he says, taking both of her hands in his and pressing a kiss to both of her cheeks in such a familiar act that she blushes. Florence thanks him, but she cannot deny that she does _feel_ beautiful. Her dress is made of a thin silvery material with a neckline that plunges down her chest, thin straps crossing over her shoulders and down to her cinched waist, leaving her back exposed. The skirt is full and layered, and up close there are delicate lines and stars – constellations sewn into the gown itself. Florence has spent hours straightening her hair with various potions, clipping it back on either side of her face so that strands of caramel hair tickle the back of her shoulders with each step. On her face she has applied a translucent glitter around her lids and cheekbones until her eyes are wide as the moon and her face feline and angular.

She feels like an ice nymph or Artemis, goddess of the hunt, and already she wants to take to the dance floor, to float upon the sounds of music.

“Thank you, Fleamont. You do too,” she says, reaching to straighten his matching purple bow tie. “Is your family here?”

“Yes they’ve gone off to the bar, which incidentally was where I was heading until I spotted you. Care to join me?”

Florence accepts his arm and together they carry on through into the main salon. If the night before it had been soft, tonight the room is striking. Devoid of tables, a raised platform hosts an entire orchestra of minstrels dressed in fine black dress robes, a wrinkled goblin standing on a stack of books before them leading the players through a gentle classical piece as guests arrive. There are ice stalactites hanging from the ceiling and chandeliers, and every flame lighting the room flickers blue and gray, sending a moon-like quality about the space.

“Wow,” Florence breathes, relishing the trickle of wind from the open doors that cools her flushed skin.

“The Greengrass’s never disappoint.”

They each secure a glass of wine before taking a turn about the room, Florence’s arm still intertwined with Fleamont’s. The drink is cold and refreshing and already Florence can feel herself being swept away by the evening.

“Your magic was quite impressive last night,” Fleamont continues as they watch several older couples step out onto the dance floor to break the ice. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Oh, I learned it from my great-grandmother, Adsila,” Florence tells him, taking another sip. Fleamont seems perfectly nice, but her experiences with Lizzie and Philip make her hesitant to dive into the intricacies of native and land magics. “Left me dead tired.”

“Wish we’d contributed something useful. My dad just threw in a limited addition racing broom.”

“Antiques have value.”

“Yes, well, I was hoping to inherit that particular antique,” Fleamont says darkly.

They have done a full circle of the room when Lizzie, clothed in deep red and hair pulled high and tight into a ponytail appears before Florence. She is arresting, like a ruby personified, her blue eyes clashing with the red of her lips, the white of her skin.

“Lizzie!” Florence shouts, dropping Fleamont’s arm so that she can sweep her friend into a hug. “You look _wonderful._ ”

“Not too bad yourself. I knew that dress was a winner,” she says, the girls holding each other at arm’s length and spinning, admiring the way the light fell on their gowns.

“Mother’s just sent me to find you and see if there are young men we can coerce into dancing. She says if we don’t start it, it will be only old people all night.”

“I think I can be of service if you’re agreeable, Florence?” Fleamont asks, offering his arm once more.

“Yes, of course,” she beams. She has always loved dancing, even from a young age when she could do nothing but spin in her father’s arms. Now that she is older, galas are like blossoming into womanhood, the desire she spins into young men her currency.

“And I as well,” a familiar tone interjects, and turning Philip is beside them, offering his hand to Lizzie, swathed in royal blue dress robes with his sandy hair brushed into neat lines behind his ears.

“Philip! You look dashing,” Florence gushes, once more pulled safely into Fleamont Potter’s side. Philip smiles at her briefly before returning his eyes to Lizzie’s, their friendly depths wide with sincerity.

“How about it, aye, Greengrass?”

“Oh alright, but don’t you dare try to monopolize my time like last year, _Burke_ ,” she scolds with a smile, her hand sliding into his. “I am a hostess after all.”

They take to the dance floor in preparation for the next song, Fleamont’s arm around her waist, their hands clasped in the air. The goblin conductor raps his baton on his sheet music once, twice, and then the music begins, a fast paced waltz that has them spinning across the dance floor. Fleamont’s steps are steady if not slightly too energetic, but they both laugh at the near misses of stepping on each other’s toes, critiquing each other’s form good naturedly.

“I thought I was supposed to lead,” he chastises, spinning Florence under his arm and then drawing her back in as the couples spin across the floor.

“Depending upon others is not something that comes naturally to me,” Florence laughs and he laughs with her.

“Somehow that does not surprise me.”

The song ends and Fleamont presses her hand to his lips before leading her down the hallway where Philip and Lizzie have disappeared, most assuredly to get another drink. After yet another glass of wine, Fleamont disappears with a beg for another dance later in the evening to find his family, although Florence has noticed the way the Gryffindor boy’s eyes have been following a green clad girl throughout the night and that he exits the room shortly after she does.

Philip finds her next and they dance through one song and then another. His shoulder is firm under Florence’s hand and when he lifts her his hands cup her waist like she is something precious. He tells her she looks beautiful and they discuss her brother and she invites him to Georgia for the holidays before she even realizes she’s tipsy. Beside them Lizzie and Pyrrhus are dancing so close to one another there is no room for air in between and Philip’s face pales, but Florence leads them farther across the room and he does not complain that she is leading.

After her third dance with Philip, Florence finds herself upon the back balcony, sipping from a tumbler of bourbon that a man has left unattended, letting the night cool her, the drink flow through her veins. The stars are hardly visible in the sky above her, but the moon is nearly full, something she had not noticed last night in all of the commotion. Even with wine coursing in her system, she can feel the moon spirit, the beams of light like caresses across her skin. _We are sisters tonight_ she thinks, and the thought makes her smile to no one.

“Florence,” a voice calls, and it is a siren, low and melodious and she knows who it is without having to turn because no one has ever said her name like it is a song before. She wants to hear it again.

“Tom,” she whispers, her voice seeming to fail as she glances over her shoulder to see him standing behind her. He looks no different than he did last night, dressed in sharp, black robes and his hair neatly styled, yet under the light of the moon he is translucent and heavenly and her mouth dries and her heart shudders to a stop. Turning fully to face him, there is flicker of his lip as if he is attempting to smirk, but his eyes have stretched to such a size as he takes her in that he is rendered incapable.

His look is captivating and sinful and _hungry_ and she knows it must match the one on her own face because the beast within her is roaring to consume him.

“Why are you out here,” he asks, motioning to the empty terrace without looking away. He steps closer. Florence swallows.

“Taking a break from the dancing,” she explains. “Why are you endeavoring in small talk? Not usually your forte.” His eyes narrow.

“You have been avoiding me,” he states, the gravel in his tone like the echoes of thunder.

“Yes.”

“But you are no longer?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, because she doesn’t. She has already accepted that she does not want too, but nothing has changed in reality. He still values people’s lives as no more than dogs, and yet looking upon him now she cannot muster any of her prior revulsion.

“Florence,” he repeats, and he steps closer so that the hem of his robes meets the train of her gown. Her eyes are level with his chest and she can see him take several deep breaths, his shoulders expanding. Tom’s usual clean scent washes over her and she closes her eyes momentarily because it must be a sin that it smells like coming home.

“I like the way you say my name,” she whispers before she can stop herself, and when she opens her eyes he is smiling, his singular broad grin that seems to capture the majesty of a thousand stars. She smiles too because there is no other reaction, because this clean cut, enigmatic boy moves her like the strongest waves in the middle of the ocean and she doesn’t know how to control it, or even if she should bother to at this point.

“You’re blushing.”

“Not very gentlemanly of you to point it out,” she replies, feeling her face flame even more. Tom’s grin only widens and Florence has to lick her lips because they are so dry.

“I like that I can make you blush.” His honesty is so captivating that she misses him lift his hand, but she knows the moment he touches her because it is like catching fire and drowning all at the same time and there is nothing more to this world than Tom Riddle.

Long, delicate fingers pull at the pin in her hair, allowing his fingers to graze her ear, rake her scalp as her hair falls alongside her face, his other hand repeating the same motion on the other side until Florence’s mane has been freed. She watches his face as he works, the slight wrinkle in his brow, the smirk on his lips that makes her abdomen constrict in delicious heat. Taking the pins in one hand, Tom stuffs them into his pocket, his free hand returning to her hair where he twirls a singular strand at the base of her neck around his finger, like he is tying Florence to him.

“There was lightning in your hair last night,” he murmurs, and his face is so close to hers that Florence knows she’s not breathing.

“Yes, Albion likes to tease me for it.”

“It was beautiful,” Tom says, and then continuing on before Florence can even register what he has said, Tom elaborates. “You are beautiful.”

She does not know what comes over her. The hand in her hair stills as she reaches for it, cupping it in her hands, and without thinking Florence presses his palm to her lips, feeling the warmth of his skin, the surge of his magic in her veins because Tom _is_ magic.

“I dreamt about a blue dragon last night,” she tells him, running her pointer finger over the lines of his palm, and then she laughs – loud and carefree because she feels like she has fallen down a well and he is the water at the bottom which catches her and he smiles and takes her hand in his as if they have reached some form of agreement.

“Dance with me.”

It is not a question. Florence smiles and lets him lead her back onto the ballroom floor, his hand sliding around to the small of her back, his fingers tracing up her forearm to her hand where their fingers interlace. Florence’s hand is around his neck, their bodies so close she can feel the heat he radiates through both of their clothes. Pressed against him every wicked thought she’d ever held runs through her mind and it is only the midnight of Tom’s eyes that ground her, the smile that resurfaces on his face.

She does not know if the music begins, but one moment they are floating and the next they are dancing. It is easy to be swept away by Tom, for once unconcerned with the right steps, content to have another take control, to guide her. They are made for each other, the hand on his back drawing her into him, his lips at her ear, breath warm and delicious along her neck.

“I still haven’t changed my opinion you know,” Florence murmurs, pressing her cheek against his chest as they move. She can feel him smile into her hair.

“Nor have I.”

“So are we at an impasse?” Florence asks, peeling away from him so that their eyes can meet, so that she can relieve the thrill of the connection. Tom gives a small jerk of his head, a noncommittal motion.

“We’re dancing aren’t we?” As if this is some kind of answer to their moral dilemma. Florence allows it to be, bringing her face back to his chest, closing her eyes and permitting herself to be carried away. She can hear the beating of his heart, the air rumbling in his lungs – feel the magic that churns through his very being. At any moment they may drift into the clouds and never return to the Earth, waltzing amongst the heavens.

When the song ends Tom does not pull away, only bringing his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his eyes resting upon hers as if they were made to do so. He smiles again and Florence feels something within her begin to leak because he is beautiful and somehow this moment feels stolen, like standing before a great piece of art right before a museum is set to close. Like this could be taken from them.

“Can we get a drink,” she croaks because all at once she is aware of the eyes upon them, of Lizzie and Pyrrhus standing in the corner, of Philip and a gaggle of other students surveying them from beside the orchestra. Tom nods his acquiescence, offering her his arm after a moment before they set off through the crowd.

Florence has never felt so seen as she does moving alongside Tom, the number of eyes watching the pair of them process uncountable. Because Tom is something rare and unseen and yet he has perceived something in her and it makes Florence’s head giddy with power – or with alcohol she does not know. In the hallway leading from the foyer Druella and Teresa stand eyeing them coolly. It takes all of Florence’s self-restraint not too smirk at the two miserable girls.

“You’re fan club is bothered by me,” Florence says, still staring at the two girls. Beside her Tom snorts and she can feel it through his arm because she’s _touching_ him and what a delicious thought it is. He does not answer, instead pulling Florence along beside him as they move into the smaller salon where the bartender is conveniently free. Tom’s raised eyebrow is the only motion he makes to ask what she would like to have to drink.

“A firewhisky please,” Florence says, leaning across the bar to smile at the man behind the counter. “And he’d like one too.”

The man complies before Tom can dispute Florence’s request, and with a particularly sour look, he accepts the glass.

“You are drunk,” he states, his voice less melodic now, the arm she clings to more rigid.

“Just live in the moment, Tom. We will never have it again,” Florence replies.

“Is that how you live your life?”

“I endeavor too,” Florence tells him, giving him a smile so wide that Tom cannot help but return it, intertwined as they are it seems foolish not to enjoy each other’s company. “Can we go listen to the orchestra? I love music.”

Taking his hand in hers, she physically pulls at him before he can answer, slipping out of the estate through a small side door. Blinking a few times, it takes Florence a moment before she realizes they are in the side garden.

“We can’t hear the music from here.”

“Yes we can, just a moment.” Florence guides Tom to an open bench around the corner, just below the balcony where the music wafts through open doors. Seating herself, Florence leans back against the stone wall, her eyes falling closed as the swelling of violins fills her ears. Tom seats himself beside her, his hand still ensconced in hers.

They sit for some time in silence. It is a sign of how far they have come – that Florence can be around him without wanting to drive him to madness, to quake and quiver like rage incarnate. _Or it’s the alcohol_ she considers, but all the same, she feels more at peace than she has since arriving at Hogwarts. Around them the air reverberates with the steady rising and falling of song, the magic in it soft and abounding, an embrace from an old friend.

“Why did you cry last night,” Tom asks after the final chord has long faded into nothingness. Florence opens her eyes, lifting her head from the wall to see Tom staring before him, a hardness in his gaze that has not been there. It is an innocent question, one that makes something within Florence ache.

“Because growth is beautiful, because I was nurturing the tree to die,” Florence admits, her eyes locked upon the paleness of his face. “It moved me, I suppose.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Then I don’t think I can explain it.”

There is silence again, the music that begins slow and dreamlike. It is a piece she knows from trips to show halls in New York, sneaking away from their hunting cabin and apparating to the city for a symphony or a dance hall. She thinks she can recall spinning upon a dance floor in the arms of a genial blonde wizard to this piece, but she cannot be sure. The piano is haunting yet bright, the fingers on the keys at one moment mourning, the next dancing. It is telling a story, one that Florence cannot follow, but one that makes her all the more aware of the heat that is Tom beside her, unlocking a swirling pool of memories in her mind.

“ _Sing, o goddess, of the rage of Achilles_ …” she murmurs, her mind wandering the words she has read a hundred times before, who’s tragedy seem to tango with the piece now reverberating around them.

“Is that a spell?” Tom asks.

“It’s the opening line to the _Iliad_.”

“The _Iliad_?” Tom turns to face her, the wrinkle in his brow so endearing something within Florence seems to slide out of place.

“It’s an old Greek poem. My father used to read it out loud to me – it’s my favorite story,” Florence admits. She is staring at their hands once more, moving hers so that she can trace her finger over the lines of his hand, the swell of his knuckles, the fine veins in his wrist. The music of the pianist seems to move through her, as if somewhere above them in the ballroom the artist is making love to his instrument. “I’m trying to decide which of the characters you most resemble,”

“You think I’m like one of the characters?” Tom talks as if he has never read a story before, like the concept of humanity in fiction is too great even for his mind. “Are you like a character in the story?”

Her finger has found the black signet ring Tom wears, yet she is so lost in the melody of Tom’s presence, his words, that she does not notice the trickling of dread that seeps from the stone itself, its almost frigid temperature despite Tom’s heat.

“I don’t know,” Florence tells Tom again, and then she stands, spinning to be before him so that the moon is behind her and he has to look up and his strange blank expression is back but again Florence has another key and taking his other hand in hers so that she now possesses both, she watches for the flicker of heat that will run through his eyes. When she sees it, she feels triumphant.

“None of the women in the Iliad end up happy in the end, and I intend on being ridiculously happy.” Her hands tighten around his for a moment. “Let’s go dance. The Moon Spirit is smiling upon us but we’re just sitting here like idiots.” Tom gets to his feet and Florence briefly wonders if she will ever tire of looking at him. The thought seems preposterous – Tom has been her captive for nearly the last hour and beyond the confusion whirling within her, she has been able to stare unabashedly at his features. He, to his credit, had been doing the same to her.

“Florence,” he whispers, and she freezes because she loves hearing it and she has this strange feeling that in this moment, she’d do anything for him. “Can we dance here?”

Florence does not ask why, she just nods, this time both of her hands interlacing behind his neck, Tom’s clawing at her waist, their bodies like two puzzle pieces locked into place. As they sway, Tom’s chin pressed to the top of her head, Florence feels warm, sated, but whether from the magic that still hums through the air, the magic that is Tom in her arms, or from the alcohol in her system Florence does not know or care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean honestly I've had this written for so long, and I'm so glad to finally share it with you. I don't know if I'm happy with it, but I've put so much work into this chapter I'm unsure if there is anything I can do at this point to make it better. 
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments - I cannot even begin to express how much I love and cherish each of them. Feel free to let me know your thoughts after this one, because I've been sweating 15 for weeks haha.
> 
> Also, i just wanted to address the tags because I've made a big mistake and I wanted to clarify. So this is my first time posting long form on AO3, and I used the Tom/hermione tag just because I felt like these were both similar stories, and my intention was that if you liked Tomione (as I do -it's my favorite ship:) ) then you might also like Limited. If you feel upset/betrayed by this - my sincerest apologies, it was never my goal to mislead anyone. I initially took down the tag, but I've decided to keep it and update the others to reflect my meaning because I still do believe that if you like Tom/Hermione you might also like Tom/Florence. 
> 
> Anyways, thank you thank you thank you for all the comments, kudos, and people stopping to read this tale!!! I'm through chapter 23 so still moving along ahead of you Xx


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh the comments the comments!! Thank you for your kind words I cherish and re-read all of them more than you can ever know:) I hope you enjoy this next installment. Sending lots of love and well wishes to all of you!

**Chapter 16**

“...a chasm opened in the earth and out of it coal-black horses sprang, drawing a chariot and driven by one who had a look of dark splendor, majestic and beautiful and terrible. He caught her to him and held her close. The next moment she was being borne away from the radiance of earth in springtime to the world of the dead by the king who rules it.”  
― Edith Hamilton, Mythology

Returning to the Great Hall for breakfast the Monday after the magic of Samhain is so mundane that Florence realizes it is the first time she has not be amazed by the ceiling, in awe of the spread of food before her. Lizzie seems equally as dejected, rapping her teacup with such force that yellow sparks emit from the end of her wand. Florence had not said a word to her friend that morning after watching the blonde girl getting dressed in such a foul mood that she tore a hole in her robes, swearing in such an _un-Elizabeth_ fashion Florence momentarily wondered if she was sick. Their walk down had left each girl to their own thoughts, Lizzie’s unknown, Florence’s of course on the one thing they had been on since she’d awoken Sunday morning after the gala – Tom.

Florence did not remember going to bed Saturday night, but she did remember dreaming of Tom, of dark eyes that burned and of the electricity of magic that hummed in her very bones. She’d thrown herself out of bed in a cold sweat Sunday morning and immediately pelted into a cold bath, a meager attempt to cool the heat of her skin, the racing of her heart. Florence wondered if perhaps she had been bewitched – if Tom had snuck a potion into her drink during the night. She’d never _dreamed_ of him before. There had been fantasizes and musings and of course questions to those around her about her most inane curiosities, but his searing smile had never followed her into sleep, the stroke of his fingers across her arm waking her as if from a nightmare.

Something had changed that night and Florence didn’t know what and it made her nauseous with a sense of helplessness, like Tom was this inevitable force before her, a waterfall her ship was set to plummet over. She _hated_ not being in control – it was what had sent her across the ocean to Hogwarts in order to determine her on magical education. It was what had pushed her to learn from Adsila when no one else would teach her. And yet Tom Riddle had simply existed in his devastatingly handsome form on her first night at Hogwarts and she had been doomed. To make it worse, he was powerful, and he could teach her, which was exactly what she wanted.

The Fates had surely abandoned her when she set off across the ocean.

“I mean, where are the owls?” Lizzie fumes, drawing Florence’s attention back to the present. “They aren’t usually this late!”

“Are you expecting something?” Philip asks, his cheeks bulging with spoonfuls of porridge. Lizzie’s responding look is so cold that Florence feels her eyebrows shoot up her forehead, returning her gaze to the assemblage of toast on her plate.

“Did you wake up dumber this morning, Philip?” She snaps. To Florence’s right the boy holds both of his hands in the air, his fork clattering to the table.

“Merlin, I’d forgotten how pleasant you can be in the morning.”

“Shut it, prat.”

“Christ, can you two just _not_ this morning?” Florence inserts, glaring between the two of them. “My coffee hasn’t kicked in.”

Philip smiles at her, Lizzie rolls her eyes, and they return to silence once more. But, it is only a few seconds later that the familiar flapping of wings sounds, all three of their heads this time lifting to the skies. Florence glances at Lizzie to find that her companion’s already wan skin has gone lily-white, her eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar. Before Florence can ask if she’s feeling well, a great, tawny owl lands neatly before her, a primly wrapped scroll of parchment attached to its outstretched leg.

Lizzie tears at the wrapping, breaking the seal and reading at such a pace that her irises are nothing more than a summer blue blur. When at last she is done, the parchment simply falls from her hands, her gaze at last settling on Florence’s who has been watching the moment with concern.

“Lizzie?”

“Go on, read it,” she whispers, and the iciness of her voice has melted into something raw. Florence manages to bat Philip’s hand out of the way, drawing the scroll in close to read, yet before she can even unfold it, a voice cries out across the hall.

“Greengrass!”

Pyrrhus Avery is standing, his face noticeably stoic in the absence of his typical shit-eating grin. There is a flush in his cheeks and a wildness in his eyes that even Florence can see at such a distance. He too is holding a scroll of parchment.

Lizzie and Pyrrhus move towards each other as if in a dream, entering into a trance where their eyes form some kind of a trail, Theseus following Ariadne’s thread until they stand before each other at the head of the Hufflepuff table. Pyrrhus murmurs something under his breath which causes Elizabeth to turn scarlet, and then to the entire assembly’s shock, he takes her hand and presses her knuckles to his lips in a solemn gesture. Flummoxed as to what is occurring, Florence peers down at the scroll in her hand, Philip adjusting in his seat to read over her shoulder.

_Elizabeth,_

_I write to you with great tidings and excitement for both your future and the future of the Greengrass family. As expected, James Avery – Pyrrhus’s father – extended an offer of engagement for your hand in marriage on behalf of his son, to go into effect upon your successful graduation from Hogwarts this June. After much careful consideration, your mother and I have accepted this agreement._

_We fully expect you and Pyrrhus to have a blessed and fruitful marriage, and we know that this message will bring you as much joy as it has brought to our family._

_Cadmus_

Philip takes the scroll from Florence’s hand the moment she has finished reading, perhaps scouring the letter once more. Florence feels unbalanced, the absolute indifference with which Lizzie’s father had written about her future galling to the point of vomit. She swallows, breathing deeply through her nose before returning her eyes to Pyrrhus and Lizzie. They are still whispering to each other – him too serious, Lizzie too abashed. Florence recalls how they had danced on the ballroom floor only Saturday night, and yet, they were only sixteen, maybe seventeen? How could they know – how could their _parents_ know that this was right? She remembers the voice of the Sorting Hat in her head, attempting to divine her fate. _No one_ would control her destiny. Florence feels her mouth open and close several times as if searching for air.

It is with a modicum of relief that the now happy couple leaves the Great Hall arm-in-arm a moment later. Florence does not know if she would have anything appropriate to say, and she cannot imagine anything worse than offending Lizzie during a moment such as this. As her eyes follow the pair, they slide over and then halt upon the Slytherin table where a different, darker set is already fixed upon her.

Tom looks bored. His jaw is tense and his eyes slack and there is an aura of complete disinterest as the rest of the boys seated around him crane their necks to catch a final glance of Pyrrhus before he slips through the door. When Florence’s eyes align with his, there is a twitch of his lip, as if to say _meaningless_. She smiles because she is looking at him, even if she does not share his sentiment, and then turns to face Philip.

Unlike Tom, Philip looks anything but bored. His entire body is rod straight, his gentle face oddly pinched so that his freckles seem to blur together under his eyes. There is a tremble in his hand, and with warning he is up and fleeing the table. Florence grabs her coffee and follows without question, for once unaware of the midnight gaze that follows her movement.

Philip is halfway up the Entrance Hall stairs when Florence reaches the red carpeted landing, her coffee mug slopping slightly over the lip and onto her hand. Ignoring the pain of scalding liquid across her skin, she calls after him.

“Philip Burke, don’t you dare just run away from me,” she shouts, still moving in his wake to the base of the stairs and up them. “So help me god, I will figure out some way to glue you to the stairs if it takes me one-hundred years to master the spell.”

Philip stops at the top of the flight and then ducks into an empty classroom, a clear invitation for Florence to follow. She does, peering around a room she has never seen before until her eyes land upon his hunched figure which is sprawled in a chair. Staring at him, Florence is unsure if she has ever seen Philip look upset before, but the look that spreads across his face now is so heart rendering she feels the urge to rip out her own and offer it to her soft, kindly friend.

“Look, I didn’t mean for you to follow me,” he says and his voice is gruff and crisp like the crunch of dead grass underfoot.

“Well you should know by now that I tend to do what I want,” Florence tells him, taking a seat across the aisle from him. She is glad she has brought her coffee, it gives her something to hold instead of attempting to hug Philip – an act he clearly does not wish for. His eyes remained fixed on the floor between their feet, his jaw working in silence.

“Do you want to tell me what you’re thinking?” Florence asks, and this time she is gentler because he looks so small before her that she feels the need to back off.

“Not particularly.”

“You like Lizzie.”

Florence’s words sounded blunt, even to her, and she immediately presses her coffee to her lips, attempting to swallow them the moment she has spoken. Philips head snaps to attention, at last meeting her gaze.

“Merlin, Florence, for someone who understands all the trappings of pure-blood society, you can be so fucking dense.” His voice is shaking although whether from repressed tears or anger she cannot tell. “Of course I like her, but it’s not like it matters.”

“Did your father ever put in a bid for Lizzie?”

Philip throws his head back and laughs, getting to his feet so that he can pace around the classroom.

“My father? He would never do something that generous, especially not for me. The only way it would have worked out is if Elizabeth mentioned something to her father, which she obviously didn’t, so Cadmus had his pick of the more _eligible_ pure-blood men.”

“You’re eligible –” Florence begins, but he cuts her off.

“Yeah, the Burke’s are pure-bloods, but we’re one of the lowest of the twenty-eight. Why do you think my father helped Nott write the damn list? Just to ensure we were on it.”

“Ok, but I still don’t understand why-”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” There are tears in his eyes now and he is pressing his hands against his skull like he would prefer to crush it. “You said your family is the oldest of the old in Georgia – when you debut every man in town will put his name in, you’ll have any option you choose, and if you didn’t see the name you like, your father cares so much about you I bet he’d reach out to the boy’s family to see if he’s interested.”

Florence does not speak because she knows it is inherently true. Yes, she will have limited choice in who she marries, but of those men who meet the threshold of social currency and wealth and magical capability, she will have the final choice, a decision all her own.

“To my dad, and the pure-bloods here, a marriage rejection is as embarrassing as it gets. Do you think my father would stake our family name on _me_? His abhorrent son?” Philip is crying now and Florence feels like she is rocking on a ship out at sea, Philip on a far distant shore. Too far to reach. “I never stood a chance.”

“Philip, the situation was out of your control, I know you’re sad but you can’t hold yourself responsible.”

“You have no idea, Florence.” His expression is pained, his eyes widening, fingers clawing at his cheeks. “For six years it was just me and her in Ravenclaw, and then this summer Avery just _notices_ that Lizzie is the most gorgeous girl in our year – seemingly out of the blue – and then that’s that because he’s got the right last name and the right bank account. And the worst part is, she actually likes the guy! I’ve been here for _years_ and it still wasn’t enough!”

Florence has no idea what to say, so she remains silent. She had never once considered that the marriage process for upper echelon families could be just as challenging for the young men subjected too it as it was for the women. At least Florence had a father who would, at the minimum, listen to her opinions on potential husbands regardless of what her prim and proper mother thought. But Philip had made the horrible mistake of catching feelings for someone unattainable – his closest friend no less, and had to watch as she’d slipped through his fingers like sand in a sieve. There was a gnawing in her stomach and a flash of midnight eyes and the sinking, rumbling question of what dead end she may have unintentionally driven her own emotions down.

“Look, I’m going to go for a walk,” Philip says, wiping the tears from his cheeks, his pacing still cracking the quiet of the room like shattering glass. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

He is gone before she can even say another word.

Florence follows after Philip a few minutes later, her mind buzzing along several knotted threads of thought. Rounding the corner, Florence comes to a halt at the top of the grand staircase because Tom is standing at the foot of them, his porcelain face upturned as if he has been waiting, one hand resting on the railing, his posture a perfect picture of elegance.

Without the warm glow of wine in her stomach, Florence has nothing to push away the reminders of his cold indifference, of his lack of respect for certain human life. And yet, she descends the steps anyways, her eyes fixed upon his, the way they seem to be beckoning to her as she moves down the stairs towards him. Florence halts only one step above him so that Tom is forced to look slightly up at her, their hands centimeters apart upon the bannister, the energy that flows between them only further riling the nausea that has followed Florence since Sunday.

“Florence,” he greets her after a beat of silent staring. She blushes immediately, causing Tom’s face to split into a triumphant grin, as if to say _I have you_.

“Seems like our friends are getting married,” she replies.

“You do not seem particularly enthused by the idea.”

“No, it’s not that,” Florence admits, shrugging, the image of Philip’s face lined with marks from his own nails flashing before her eyes. “Just shocked more than anything.”

“Yes, well, Greengrass and Avery will go on to fulfill all of their wildest pure-blood dreams,” he snorts. “Marriage and childrearing.”

“Not fond of the idea?”

“I don’t believe that marriage is somehow an achievement in status.”

“I think there is power in it of a kind,” Florence counters, her head falling to the side as she looks at him, a small smile creeping onto her face. Saturday night with Tom had been heavenly, but she’d missed _this._ The conversation, words wielded in a dual. He smirks in return, as if some wavelength has passed between them.

“Magic is power, Florence. Not some farcical institution that encourages inbreeding.”

“Authority and influence come in many forms, Tom.”

“You restructured the laws of _growth_ on Samhain, and you mean to convince me that somehow marriage holds a candle to what you did?” His voice drops lower, his eyes flashing as he recalls Florence’s display, that hungry expression that sends warmth pooling between her legs sliding onto his face.

“Perhaps not the same, but still valuable.”

Tom shakes his head, this time smirking to himself as if Florence has just shown her hand, as if she is a four year old informing him that the sky is, in fact, orange. His eyes wander around the Entrance Hall momentarily before returning to Florence’s own.

“We are going to be late for Care of Magical Creatures,” he states. “Come.”

When Tom takes her hand, she is prepared for the surge of electricity that seems to burn across her skin, and yet it still manages to shock her to her core. That he could still muster so great of a physical response from her, it was mystifying, but she does not fight it. Around them, students moving to their classes gawk openly, their mouths so wide that she wants to snap at them _you’ll catch flies_ much as her mother might.

Tom seems unperturbed, his usual smug mask slipping into place as they walked out onto the grounds, yet his hand which was interlaced with Florence’s own holds her with an iron grip, as if he is convinced she might turn to smoke and disappear. Vaguely she wonders if Tom has ever had a girlfriend, let alone anyone… well… _else._ He was so self-serving, the boys that he was constantly surrounded by appearing more like a shield than true companions. The idea of Tom with a girl? It made Florence smirk.

Still, there was something different in the gesture today, however pleasant his palm might feel in hers. There was none of the intimacy of Samhain, as if they were two comets colliding in the infiniteness of space. No, he gripped her like she was a trophy, a prize cow that he now tugged away from market, laying claim upon Florence. She wanted to ask what was wrong, but found she did not have the words.

Pyrrhus and Everard are waiting for them at the edge of the Forbidden forest, both of their eyes nearly popping from their skulls at the sight of Tom and Florence approaching hand in hand. Florence frowns. Tom smirks.

“Riddle,” Pyrrhus calls, and his shit-eating grin slips onto his face. “ _Allman_.” The lilt in his voice makes her so angry for a moment she wants to slap him. Instead, she drops Tom’s hand and sweeps him into a hug, pressing against him for a brief moment, catching his cheek in a gentle kiss.

“Congratulations _,_ Pyrrhus,” she murmurs, because despite how annoying she finds his mockery of Tom’s actions, he will be the future husband of her friend, and she cannot forget her hard taught manners now.

“Thank you, Allman,” he replies, somewhat subdued by her genuine nature.

“I do hope you know,” Florence continues, stepping back and looping her arm through Tom’s, her hand grabbing his arm so tightly that surely he most know she wants to punch the blonde brute, “that even though I will be back in America, I will expect my invitation to be the first to arrive.”

“Of course you will. Americans are so spoiled,” he teases. Laughing before her, Florence is reminded of how pleasant Avery can be when he isn’t trying to impress anyone. He’s effortless in a manner reminiscent of Albion, the thought resurfacing the familiar ache for her family. Pyrrhus’ eyes flicker between Florence and Tom who are still intertwined. _Tom isn’t the only one who can mark territory_ the beast in her stomach wants to roar, but Florence makes do with a smirk in his direction.

“So,” Avery continues. “Enjoy Samhain, Allman?”

“Yes, I found it very affirming,” Florence tells the assembled boys, her mind straying to the image of Tom standing before the fire, his conjured dragon spiraling overhead. She’d always known he was good at magic, but his demonstration had seemed to prove that he merited her time, the obsession he had evolved into.

“They don’t celebrate Samhain in America?” It is the first time Everard has spoken to her, and with some surprise, she turns to address him.

“Well I’m sure somebody does, but my family doesn’t.” Florence shrugs. “People are from all over the world so they tend to celebrate different holidays. My best friend Tallulah’s family celebrates that NoMaj holiday Easter just cause they like the music at the local church.”

“How odd,” Everard mutters to himself and then falls silent.

“Yes, well, Americans just view things so _differently_ , don’t they, Tom,” she murmurs, turning to look at him. His eyes meet hers, and despite the anger she can see in them at her challenge because he _knows_ to what she is referring – their fight after Slughorn’s party, their disagreements on muggle borns. The same thrill runs through her all the same at the eye contact.

“Certainly naively,” he replies coolly.

Looking at him, a thought turns through Florence’s mind, disarming in its simplicity. She knows almost nothing about Tom – albeit a few massive tentpole items. He has supposedly saved the school, he can tame fire, he is an orphan. All extremely telling things, but Florence has no idea what holidays he celebrates or foods he enjoys or if he even has any hobbies. The thought saddens her, and with a slight shake of her head she drops his arm and steps through their circle towards where the rest of the class has gathered. Tom watches her move like a hawk.

“Come on, class is starting.”

Tom stands directly beside her the entire class. He is closer than he has ever allowed himself to be when others can see them, and yet he is distant because she doesn’t _know_ him. _You know he hates muggle borns_ that terrible, nagging voice reminds her. _You know that and you’re still standing here._

Yet when Tom’s fingers begin to graze the back of her shoulder, it is a featherlight touch that sends ripples across Florence’s skin even through her school uniform, silencing the thoughts in her mind. He does not look at her, but she can feel the pads of his fingers pressing into her skin, marking her. The hunger in her stomach stirs, and she relaxes into the easy confidence she always bears. She has never not gotten what she wants – she will learn about him, every minute detail, and in the meantime, she would not guilt herself for enjoying his company. Guilt was not an emotion familiar to Florence, and she did not bear it well.

“Tom,” she whispers, and he turns to look at her, his hand stilling upon her shoulder. One of his brows raises in a question, but Florence just smirks and looks back at their professor. She can feel the annoyance that radiates off of him, and like a bandage he wants to rip off, he presses her.

“Florence?”

“Nothing, angel,” she laughs to herself, turning to smile at him. “Just wanted to hear you say my name.”

The blank look he gives her is immaculate, but even Tom cannot stop the slightest hint of pink that colors his cheekbones, the flash in his midnight gaze. The effect, much to Florence’s horror, is extraordinarily exquisite, like he is a Vermeer come to life.

She thinks she would bend over backwards for Tom to look at her the way he is now for the rest of her life.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

“We were like gods at the dawning of the world, & our joy was so bright we could see nothing else but the other.”  
― Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

Tom is seated at his usual table in the library, surrounded by Leonidas Lestrange and another boy arrayed in the familiar emerald of Slytherin that she had yet to meet. Florence’s pride would of course not admit that she had been _looking_ for him, but there was no denying the loosening in her gut when at last his chocolate waves came into view, the surge of incomparable relief as his midnight eyes met hers. She smiles like a fool, his responding smirk sending a burning sensation running across her skin.

“Leave us,” Tom mutters under his breath, his gaze never leaving Florence’s, and yet the two boys immediately begin to pack. It is the orderly voice he uses in their lessons, like the crack of a whip or a wooden paddle upon a desk. Florence watches as the two Slytherins immediately grab their books and scamper away, Leonidas offering her a curt nod of his head before disappearing behind a bookshelf, leaving her alone with Tom. With another smirk he reaches out and pulls Leonidas’ recently evacuated chair directly beside him, nodding to it for her to sit. Florence does with a roll of her eyes.

“That was friendly,” she comments, placing her bag upon the table and lowering herself into the seat, training her eyes upon his face which cracks into a full smile at her teasing. His arm is still around the back of her chair, and looking up at Tom, she feels a bit shell-shocked by his ability to overwhelm her senses. “Do they always just do what you say?”

“If they’re smart.”

“Someday someone is going to humble you, I just hope I’m there to see it.”

“Why do I get the sense that you want it to be you?” He states. Florence feels his fingers as they begin to intertwine with her hair, pulling just slightly so that she can feel her head sway. A delicious current seems to be welling within her, and she blushes to Tom’s undeniable satisfaction.

“I’ll take that as another compliment, I think.”

“Were you looking for me?” He asks, the hand buried in her hair growing bolder as he rakes his nails along the back of her scalp. Florence wants to tell him to stop because the motion is so distracting and it’s only made worse by his particular, clean scent which washes over her, but instead she feels herself leaning into his hand slightly as if offering herself to him.

“Of course not,” Florence denounces, feeling her face redden further, the acrid taste of burnt pride spreading across her tongue.

“Of course,” Tom purrs. The shiver that slips through her body is equivalent to stepping outside on the coldest day of winter, the flash in Tom’s eye a sin.

“Have you done the Runes translation?” Florence asks, turning away from him to rummage through her bag, attempting to regain control of her breathing which has grown quite erratic since sitting down. She glances at his stack of books but cannot read any of their faded leather covers.

“I finished it yesterday, haven’t you started?”

“No, I procrastinated okay.” She snaps, pulling out a fresh piece of parchment and the text that she is supposed to be translating.

“Well, you are fluent in Linear B Greek so I can’t imagine it will be an issue for you,” he soothes, one knuckle connecting with the skin of her neck and tracing a line down to the edge of her collar. Florence forgets her retort and instead flounders for conversation.

“What are you reading?”

“Just something extracurricular,” Tom evades, pulling one of the textbooks forward and flipping open the cover. Florence frowns, rolling her eyes as he attempts to ignore her question. He may have the ability to boss her around during her lessons, but certainly not outside of them. Without asking she takes the book from his hands, snapping it closed to read the faded gold lettering on the cover.

“ _Magical Sources: Theories and Propositions of the 18 thCentury Sorcerer,_” Florence reads aloud, glancing up at Tom to see that his smirk has been replaced by the usual mask he wears. Florence places the book onto the table once more, sliding it in front of Tom. “Why are you researching that?”

“Because it’s interesting,” he quips.

“You’re trying to work out what I did on Samhain,” she accuses him, a feral grin splitting her face as he frowns openly. “You could have just asked me.”

“You have already assured me that you can’t teach me.”

Tom’s frown deepens, but the hand that is tangled in her hair has begun to cup her neck, the pads of his fingers tracing circles into her skin under her ear.

“Well I can’t, but I don’t mind telling you.” It is a truth that Florence did not realize until she said it. “Lizzie and Philip think I’m a bit mad when I mention land magic, but people like you and Dumbledore don’t question me at all.”

“You’ve told Dumbledore?” He asks, a razor’s edge slipping into his voice so that his words seem to slice the air. The hand upon her skin stills.

“Yes. He’s tutoring me in Transfiguration, he needed to understand why I was having blockage’s with my magic.”

“Well now that you’ve explained it to Dumbledore, I’m sure you won’t have any issues explaining it to me.” His voice is so hard it could shatter upon impact, and his hand retracts from her body, leaving her skin cold.

“What do you have against, Dumbledore?” Florence wonders aloud, searching his face for a hint and finding only his inescapable beauty. She can see his jaw tighten, the flicker of his eyes to red as he attempts to determine if he will answer her. In Florence’s limited experience at Hogwarts, she is accustomed to people worshiping the Transfiguration Professor. _But_ she muses _it would be like Tom to dislike him – to go against the grain just for the sake of setting himself apart_.

“Dumbledore does not think highly of me,” he says at last.

“Yeah, well, Slughorn thinks enough of you for twenty people,” Florence reminds him. She has never seen any sign from him that he looks for approval, it shocks her now that he wants it from Dumbledore. “Why doesn’t Professor Dumbledore like you.”

Tom’s eyes narrow, his thumb tapping lightly upon the cover of the book before him.

“He was the one who came to the orphanage to tell me about Hogwarts,” Tom admits after a moment. “He found some toys in my closet that I had taken from the other kids, hasn’t trusted me since then.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Florence laughs, and Tom’s head whips around so fast she thinks he might snap his neck. The motion only makes Florence laugh harder. “I mean, why would he care – kids steal things from each other all the time.”

“I guess you’ll have to ask him.” He is tense, his eyes flickering a deep crimson. The slip of his mask to reveal the anger below subdues Florence slightly, and she considers his words. How wonderful to discover that magic is real only to have the person who introduced it to you laud over your head an incident that had occurred as a child. How would that have altered their relationship as Tom entered this world – the only person he knows already disappointed in him? She wondered how her own relationship with her mother may have differed had she not insisted upon stopping Florence from attending Ilvermorny.

Events that happened as children were no less influential because of immaturity.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” Florence says, and she is. He does not react, but his eyes remain fixed on Florence’s face as if he would like to dive into her being. “I wasn’t laughing at you, just at the idea that Dumbledore seems to forget that kids take things from one another. I used to steal from Albion all the time when I was growing up.”

Tom is silent for a moment before at last giving a curt nod.

“So are you going to tell me about the sources of magic you used during Samhain?” Tom asks.

“My grandmother taught me that the Great Spirit divided the original magic between different elements and beings and even actions,” Florence tells him with a shrug.

“So you used multiple sources?”

“Yes,” Florence agrees again. “I called upon the land and the water in it and upon the magic within the Dittany itself, and of course name magic and naming magic.”

“Will you show me more, Thursday. During our session,” Tom asks, the midnight of his eyes widening slightly in a never before seen display of earnestness. Florence debates internally for only a moment, recognizing the hunger within his face as her own hunger – the desire to know and to learn. Her mind is decided before she can even fully consider.

“If you’d like.”

Tom’s smile is radiant.

“I would.”

.

.

.

Tom was waiting for Florence in the Entrance Hall before dinner that night, taking her hand and leading Florence away from an opened mouthed Lizzie and Philip to the Slytherin table.

“I think the entire school is going to lose their eyes. They look like they’re about to pop out of their skulls,” Florence comments idly, glancing around the house tables to where every head has turned to watch their progress. Tom does not answer, but his hand tightens around hers in a markedly possessive move and Florence feels her chest glow with the familiar tingling of pride.

Avery is beaming when they seat themselves amongst Tom’s usual pack of Slytherin boys.

“Allman, a delight,” he smirks, brushing his blonde hair out of his eyes so that he can better examine her and Tom. Beside Florence, Tom’s hand drops down onto her thigh, his hand tightening so that she can feel the pads of his fingers through the thickness of her skirt. Something in her abdomen clenches in a rush of heat, her face flushing much to Pyrrhus’ misunderstood amusement.

“Avery, a menace,” Florence replies with her own smile. Beside her Tom has begun to serve himself, largely silent. She notes that the boy on the opposite side of Tom has scooted further down the bench in order to give the Head Boy more room.

“So is this to become a usual occurrence?”

“I don’t know,” Florence assures him, tapping her goblet with her wand and watching it fill with sparkling water. Tom’s fingers have begun to stroke the inside of her thigh, making her brain feel fuzzy and her face warm. “Tom is responsible for dragging me over here, you’ll have to ask him.”

Avery does not, however, press his fellow Slytherin for an answer.

Tom has helped himself to a plate of roasted potatoes, eating with uncanny grace that would surely win the affection of any aristocratic mother. It takes all of Florence’s limited self-restraint not too watch the curvature of his lips, the flash of his tongue as he takes each bite. _He’s just eating_ Florence reminds herself, abashed by the feelings whirling within her. If Tom notices her staring, he does not comment.

Across the Great Hall students are still craning their necks to get a look at her and Tom, as if the idea that two people might want to enjoy a meal together is new and confounding. Not for the first time she wishes she knew more than ten spells so that she could glue their eyelids shut or make their earlobes sprout thick, black hair – but there is no denying that she gets a certain amount of satisfaction in the attention. The Shafiq girl only a few spaces down on the Slytherin table looks like she’d just bit into a sour grapefruit. Florence beams at her.

Without making up her mind to do so, Florence reaches for Tom’s plate and slides it in between both of them on the table before helping herself to the food he has chosen. She’s not particularly hungry, but having spent years in high society gatherings where a look could so much as spell doom, Florence understands that a public display like eating directly from Tom’s plate was as good as leashing him to her. Tom stares at her as she spears one of his potatoes before at last a smirk appears on his face.

“In the future, angel, I’d much rather have the asparagus than the potatoes,” Florence says loudly, her eyes never flickering from Tom’s heated gaze. The hand on her thigh creeps higher, and if possible, her stomach clenches tighter. Around them, the boys’ mouths fall open in shock, but whether it is because Florence is bossing around the Head Boy or because she has referred to their cold, brooding friend as an angel she does not know. _It’s good to keep them guessing._

.

.

.

“Riddle, lovely of you to join us,” Lizzie calls out across the common room where she, Florence, and Philip are seated in the alcove behind the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw. Florence turns in her chair so quickly that the seat threatens to topple over, forcing her to slam her hand down upon the table to steady herself. Behind her Lizzie snorts at Florence’s flustered appearance.

Sure enough, the towering, porcelain figure of Tom Riddle is striding across the common room, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed solely upon Florence despite every Ravenclaw watching him progress across their navy carpet. Florence feels an odd urge to tell her other seventh year dorm mates to look elsewhere, but she manages to stay composed via some small miracle.

“May I?” He asks, pulling out and seating himself in the chair directly beside Florence before she can even respond. His voice is deep and tenuous – Florence can feel it reverberating in her ribcage.

“Sure, please, help yourself,” she jests, moving her books over all the same so that he can make himself more comfortable. “How did you get in here?”

Tom raises an eyebrow at her as if she has offended him.

“Your common room doesn’t require a password, Florence,” he says in the tone she has heard him use when reprimanding first years. She frowns at him, which only gave him further cause to smirk. “I answered the question.”

“Ha, Florence couldn’t answer it today,” Lizzie leans back in her chair, smiling ruthlessly at the pair across the table from her. Philip, for his part, looks one part confused, one part amused, his kind face scrunched as he attempts to decipher what is occurring before him.

“You couldn’t?” Tom’s voice is lower as he drops into mockery.

“No, I couldn’t,” Florence is glaring at her friend across the table. “And a good friend wouldn’t have pointed that out.”

“What do they _teach_ you in America?” Tom is again mocking her.

“Well, as you already know, nothing about practical magic, so you can kindly shut your mouth or get out.”

Tom is smirking in yet another unfairly attractive manner as he reaches for his bag and pulls out a stack of books. Florence decides that it is probably for the best that she is not taking her N.E.W.T.s because any attempt at studying around Tom, she has found, ends most often in her watching him read or write with rapt attention. More than once she has almost forgotten an assignment she’s been so caught up in the way his hands hold a quill, or the flick of his eyes across a page. Florence wants to ask him why he has sought her out, why he has broken into the Ravenclaw common room just to read beside her, but like every other publicly possessive display she lets it slide because there is no arguing with the pleasant rush of satisfaction she feels every time he does so.

Abandoning Slughorn’s potions essay which is due later in the week, Florence instead reaches for one of the books Tom has removed from his bag. She can feel him tense slightly beside her, but he makes no comment as she runs her hand over the black leather cover.

“ _An Advanced Guide to Alchemy_ ,” she whispers, turning to peer up at Tom. “You’re always reading the strangest things.”

“Learning about obscure branches of magic is not strange, Florence,” he replies, but his voice is not cold, his words seeming to test her. Challenge her.

“Alchemy is pseudo-magic.”

“I never expected you to be so _limited_ on your views of magic,” he whispers, leaning in and pulling the book from her grasp. Florence knows he is spitting her words back at her, but it doesn’t make the insult any less easy to bear.

“I am not _limited_ in my views of magic.”

“If you two are going to talk, can you go elsewhere?” Lizzie asks loudly, her cool gaze shifting between the two of them. “Some of us have work to accomplish.”

“Of course, my apologies, Greengrass.” His voice was the perfect model of a gentleman which only served to incense Florence further.

Tom gets to his feet at once, taking Florence’s hand without asking and pulls her arm through his own so that they step out of the common room laced together. The moment the door closes behind them, Florence steps away, unable to think clearly when pressed against his body. Tom’s smirk deepens.

“I am _not_ limited in how I view magic,” Florence repeats, setting off down the hallway so that Tom is forced to follow her chosen route. He moves beside her with the predatory grace she has come to expect from him, which makes her bones turn to jelly.

“Really? I believe you were the one who told me the magic we were taught here in Hogwarts was _nonsense_.”

“That’s only because it’s so narrow minded.”

“No, it’s because you can’t perform Western magic,” Tom corrects.

“If I punch you, it’s your fault,” Florence snaps, whirling to look at him. They are standing in the middle of a corridor facing off like prowling lions – Tom smug, Florence annoyed. Raising one perfectly sculpted brow, Tom opens the nearest classroom door and steps in, not waiting to see if she will follow. He knows she will, after all.

“Florence have you ever thought to what capacity you can use your native magic?” Tom asks, shutting the door with a wandless flick of his wrist. The lock _clicks_ behind her, and Florence swallows, at once aware that they are alone, away from prying eyes. Tom too seems to realize this, stalking towards her with even paces, his gaze fixed upon her face.

“Not really,” Florence begins, and then she flushes and redirects the tone of her words because the way he is looking at her makes thinking extremely difficult. “I mean, Adsila died before she could teach me all of what she know.”

“Do you think you could duel me?”

“I don’t know,” Florence admits.

Tom has come to stand directly before her, so close that she must look slightly up at him. Florence sways her weight onto one of her hips so that her knees don’t buckle from underneath her. It’s exhausting, really, to be constantly overcome by his beauty, but Florence must prevail it seems because his eyes are not going to change, nor the devilish smirk that weakens her resolve.

“You accessed magic far more powerful than your own on Samhain, Florence,” Tom began, and his words were feverish, excited. She’d never heard him speak in such a manner. It set her heart racing at a thousand miles a minute because he was _entrancing_ like this – as if the world was within his grasp. “There have to be varied applications beyond land magic or healing, just as there are various applications for the magic we do at Hogwarts.”

“I suppose so…” Florence concludes, her mouth incredibly dry. She is having a hard time focusing on his meaning because he is so near her and the indescribable urge to _touch_ him has risen in her again. There is a pink tinge to his skin that Florence finds ineffably _charming_ , like a child opening presents on Christmas. “Are you saying you think I could do Charms or Transfiguration with my magic?”

“I think it’s plausible, but of course the methodology would be vastly different,” Tom agrees. He has placed both of his forearms on her shoulders so that his fingers can run through her hair, and without any thought, Florence wraps her arms around his waist, pressing her face against his chest. Tom is hard beneath her hands, but his touch brings the familiar burn across her skin, the clinically clean smell of him that eases any tension she has been holding. She wonders if it is normal to feel so at ease in someone’s presence.

“You have very big thoughts, Tom,” Florence mumbles into his chest, because it is the only thing she feels capable of thinking. She has never once considered that there might be _more_ to what Adsila had taught her, and yet Tom has seen her perform once and he’d immediately been swept away with possibilities.

“Your potential for power is astounding, Florence,” Tom whispers, resting his chin on top of her head. “Just think of what we could discover.”

“I suppose so,” Florence agrees. “I just like being good at magic.”

It is possibly the most humbling thing she has ever said to Tom – that she wants to feel worthwhile in the magical world. That her great-grandmother’s magic has for nearly seven years been the only thing to tie herself to the magical world.

Tom does not answer, but his arms slip to encircle her entirely until one has slid around her waist, the other hand pressing her head against her chest. The pads of Tom’s fingers dig into Florence’s flesh as if he wants to leave a mark deep and indelible upon her. It is a confirmation of some sort, an acknowledgement of what she has said, that on some level he has accepted her. Wrapped around him, two as one, Florence wonders if he already has marked her, how deep it has gone, if she will ever be able to wipe them away.

.

.

.

They fell into it – whatever _it_ was – slowly and then all at once, like they had been moving through honey and then been rinsed dry, set free to run in green pastures. It was inevitable, Florence concluded, after they had danced like Hades and Persephone on the brink of life and death at Samhain, after she had watched him claim fire as his own, that they would have each other. Tom was always around, not that Florence was complaining, as if somehow he had placed a spell upon Florence’s body and was aware at all times of her presence, could find her at any location. And when he was around, he was always close enough to touch – his shoulder scraping hers, thighs pressed together under desks, his arm drooped around her shoulder in the Ravenclaw common room where his finger could trace the outline of her collar bone through her shirt.

Their public displays drew reproachful stares from much of the female population in the castle, but Tom was too well liked to raise any questions, and Florence simply did not care. Lizzie would smirk and shake her head while Tom’s gathering of Slytherin boys just stared open mouthed as if Tom had been hit round the head with a bludger. It gave Florence a thrill to think that somehow she has ensnared the most sought after boy at the school, that he had chosen her despite being American and outspoken and terrible at Western magic.

Whatever worries Florence might have held about not knowing him faded in the following weeks. He was there to escort her into meals, where she followed along good naturedly as he seated her beside him at the Slytherin table, his hand resting upon her thigh where his fingers could dig into her leg, or he was escorting her to classes, even those they didn’t share. After lessons with Professor Dumbledore on Mondays, she would go running through the corridor’s to find him and show him what she had mastered. On these occasions, Florence felt herself fall a little deeper, the flash in his midnight eyes meant only for her enough to light her entire body on fire.

Tom liked tea. Tea with cream and copious amounts of sugar, and he liked gifts. Slytherins were bringing him things all the time – new wand polish or a book they had found or even secret packages that he would not tell Florence what lay inside. Tea made his face flush with that slight tinge of pink, but gifts made him excitable, like fireworks on the NoMaj fourth of July, his eyes sparkling and his smirk replaced with the boyish smile that shifted something in Florence out of place.

Tom also liked to read. Widely and often, and when they weren’t studying or practicing Florence’s Charms and Defense lessons, more often than not they had found somewhere quiet to sit and crack open a book. Tom moved through books like he had written them himself, some ghastly and dark, others fairytales that would make Florence laugh to read the titles. For the most part they sat in silence, Florence doing her homework, Tom scanning the pages of a manuscript, and somehow his hands always finding a way to trace the contours of Florence’s body. The line of her jaw, the bend of her elbow, a finger tracing down the crevasse of her spine. It was entirely appropriate, and yet even with his gaze fixed upon an ancient scroll or potions text, his touch felt intimate, scarring. She wondered what was happening between them – they never spoke about it, Tom never brought up what he had said at Samhain. _You are beautiful_ , yet the words seemed carved into her skin.

And he did not need too. On rare occasions, Florence would look up to see that he had set aside whatever tome he was perusing to peer at her, his wandering hand stilling upon the patch of Florence’s skin he had come to claim. It was in moments like these that Florence felt the most lost, with Tom staring at her like a sailor in the middle of the sea, her the light beacon that was to bring him home. It was at the same time deeply moving as it was terrifying, the thought that he could feel so deeply for her without expressing a thing often made Florence feel small. She did not know how to belong to someone other than herself or her family, and Tom’s reticence on the topic of their relationship was confounding when he managed to look at her like she was both the sun and the moon at once.

“You’re staring again,” Florence would say in moments like these, at dinner or in the Library or tucked into a sofa in the Ravenclaw common room.

“Mhmm,” Tom would agree, his lip quirking into a smirk.

“Want to tell me what you are thinking about?”

“Something _big_ ,” he would tease, with no hint as to what specifically was on his mind.

That inevitable feeling would rise within her again, sickening with its finality, and Florence would reach for him, taking his hand in hers or running her fingers through chocolate waves, or even just tucking her feet under his legs. The contact staving off the certainty that bounced within her mind that she was going to hurt herself if she pursued this madness further. She was going to have to get married, and yet looking at Tom, as perfect as the day she first beheld him, somehow the pain seemed a worthy endeavor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha.... obsessive love, even when they're both too wimpy to bring it up. I'm sure the good times will last...
> 
> THANK YOU for all the comments and follows:) you readers are my everything - is that too dramatic? Well, I appreciate it and you!


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

“If you love deeply, you’re going to get hurt badly. But it’s still worth it.”

― C.S. Lewis

“You saw _Glenn Miller_ live?” Radella’s jaw has fallen to her chin.

“Yeah, two years ago,” Florence tells her, glancing up from her potions essay which she has been unable to concentrate upon for the past hour. “Albion took me to his Carnegie Hall concert.”

“Florence, _what_.” Radella has abandoned any attempt at her homework. They had just discovered their love for the same music – a benefit of Radella being from London where popular American music had been brought over due to the muggle war. “Glenn is my favorite artist.”

“It was amazing live,” Florence admits, unable to withhold the brag with such an ensnared audience before her. “By the time he played In the Mood, Albion had to hold me to my seat so I didn’t get up and dance.”

The fairy-like girl before her seemed prepared to faint, all-in-all more expressive in this moment than Florence had ever seen her. She smiled, her smugness growing, fully aware that her mother would slap her over the head for boasting were she present.

“I miss listening to music here,” Florence continues. “This castle can be too quiet.”

“I know,” Radella shakes her head vigorously. “I tried to bring my radio my first year – I had no idea muggle technology wouldn’t work here.”

“Strange how that works isn’t it? I wonder if there’s a spell.”

They lapse into silence, each girl resolutely returning to their respective papers. Beside Florence’s essay another scroll is tightly wound, her eyes flickering too it almost against her will. It was a letter from her mother that she had received that morning, succinct and direct as was her mom’s style.

_Florence,_

_I hope that this letter reaches you in good health. Albion informs me that you made a good showing at the Samhain celebration – I assume you have written to express your thanks to the Greengrass’s for the invitation. I have already instructed Albion to do likewise._

_Your brother tells me that you have a wonderful set of friends, and I am writing to encourage you to invite them to our home over the winter holidays. They may stay as long as they like, we will be in Georgia for the first half of the holiday before retiring to the hunting cabin in New York. Your friends are welcome to both._

_Please send back the names of those attending so I can prepare the home._

_Mom_

Florence had immediately invited Lizzie and Philip after reading the letter – or officially invited in the case of Philip who had received a tipsy invitation over the weekend. Her next thought had been Pyrrhus on Lizzie’s behalf, but one thought of Philip had silenced this notion. Radella was next in line for an invitation, the now blooming friendship between the Hufflepuff girl and Lizzie and Philip gave Florence the resulting confidence that they would be able to get along for a few days visiting her in America.

“Radella,” Florence begins, breaking the silence once more. The girl’s face turns to peer at Florence, small, elfin brow quirked as she awaits whatever it is Florence plans to tell her. “Lizzie and Philip are coming to visit me in America over the Holiday, I wondered if you might be interested in coming as well?”

Radella’s face has gone deathly pale, her eyes slightly glazed at the invitation. Silence stretches between them, and Florence feels a sense of unease crawl up her spine as they look at one another. Had she overestimated the level of their friendship? Yet glancing closer, Florence notices a watery sheen to Radella’s emerald gaze.

“Oh, Florence, I’d love too,” the girl murmurs, her voice oddly muffled as if coming from deep in her chest. “But isn’t it too dangerous with the war?”

Florence considers this. Grindelwald was of course a concern for any muggle born, but he had not set foot in Britain, and certainly not in America since the disaster with the Obscuras in New York over ten years ago. She couldn’t imagine that Radella would be in any more danger in Georgia than she was here at Hogwarts or even back home in London.

“I mean, I don’t think so, my dad says Grindelwald is mostly sticking to attacks in France and Russia,” Florence says. She chews her words carefully, mindful not to show how much she truly knows about the harm inflicted via Grindelwald, of the Ministry’s fear of attack. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t supposed to know. “But of course, I don’t want you to do anything that make you uncomfortable.”

Radella is shaking her head, the gleam in her eye still present.

“No not Grindelwald, the muggle war, you know, World War two.”

Florence leans back in her chair, nodding as a wave of understanding rolls over her. Of course Radella would be worried about the war that was currently sinking ships across the Atlantic and had been bombing her hometown of London for the better part of four years. Florence felt a trickle of embarrassment run through her that she had not realized, or even considered, that the NoMaj war might be effecting Radella.

“Heavens, you must think I’m dense,” Florence says, swallowing the acrid taste of pride and offering Radella a meek smile. “I didn’t even think – but we’d be taking an international portkey, you wouldn’t need to worry about bombings or sinking’s, and once we’re in America, you’ll be quite safe.”

“I’ll have to ask my parents, but as long as you think it’s safe, I could probably come for the first few days as long as I’m back before Christmas.”

“Oh, that’ll be easy to arrange. My mom _loves_ planning things. Just get permission from your parents and then we can work out the dates.”

The two girls beamed at each other. It was only seconds later as the girls returned to their neglected schoolwork that a dark shadow materialized beside Florence, settling silently into one of the seats directly next to her.

Tom was as handsome as ever, a fact which despite his now common presence at her side was no less powerful to Florence as she turned to smile at him, letting her eyes run unabashed along the line of his jaw, the jutting prowess of his cheekbones. He did not say a word, instead reaching into his bookbag and drawing out a large, weathered book that looked as if it had been dunked in a river and left to dry so that the pages were wrinkled and yellow. There were ominous claw marks across the cover.

“Hi,” Florence whispers, aggravated that her voice is slightly breathless at only his appearance beside her, humbling herself before him without intention. Tom’s jaw tightens but he does not answer, instead using a delicate finger to turn the page of his book, eyes resolutely fixed upon the print before him. Clearly peeved by something which he does not wish to speak of, Florence allows Tom to sit beside her in quiet, trying and failing to calm the itching feeling to aggravate him into speaking.

“Radella,” Florence voices, hoping that conversation might distract her. “Your family hasn’t been affected by the war? I mean, they’re safe aren’t they?”

“Yes, things were much worse early on, but the raids started to die off once the Germans attacked Russia, and it became much more manageable once America joined the war.”

“Do your parents keep you updated?”

“They send me newspaper clippings when they write,” Radella says, her voice echoing in a slightly hollow manner. “It’s hard to read, you know. I worry I’ll read someone’s name I know.”

“I understand that.” Florence nods. She has spent many a late night wondering if her father is a target of Grindelwald’s attacks. If each letter she receives from him might be her last. It is a sobering thought, and without realizing she has done it, Florence reaches for Tom’s thigh, pressing her fingers into his leg just above the knee, grounding herself to him as a flood of fear within her seems to rise. Under her touch, Tom stiffens, but he does nothing more than to flip a page of his book.

“I better go,” Radella sighs after a moment, rolling up her parchment. “I told William Barnaby I’d help him with his Transfiguration homework. I’ll see you later Florence,” she says with a cheery smile before slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Riddle,” Radella adds before disappearing in a cloud of raven haired curls. It is probably the most civil interaction that Tom and Radella have ever had, Florence considers, and the thought makes her smile to herself.

“Hello,” Florence repeats again, turning to face him fully and propping her feet on the underside of his chair. Her fingers trace up and down the top of his leg without thought, almost as if with a mind of their own. Tom again remains silent.

“I’ve been thinking,” Florence continues, determined to make him speak. “About what you said, about Adsila’s magic having other applications. I think we should try in my lesson this week.”

“Alright,” Tom says after a moment, and his voice is crisp and sharp, almost as if she is a fly he is dismissing.

“Is something bothering you?”

Tom flips yet another page of his book. He’s still yet to look at her, and the frantic energy that seems to always pass between them has taken on a cool, lethargic tone. With a spike of anxiety, Florence pulls her hand away from Tom so that they are not touching, unsure of how to proceed.

“Tom?”

He sets his book down at last, but when he turns to face her, she is unsure if it’s what she wanted after all. His face is perfectly blank, yet in his eyes is the familiar crimson sheen which frightens her down to her bones. Florence feels an overwhelming urge to run her hands along his shoulders, to soothe the tightness she sees there, but instead she remains quiet, her chest compressing at an alarming pace.

“I have a patrol duty I must tend too, and you seem to have important things to plan, so I’ll leave you to it,” he nearly spits, his brows contracting as if in a rage. Florence feels her own temper rising – what had she done to anger him so? He’d hardly been in her presence for more than a few minutes, and yet here he was flying off the handle.

But before Florence can return with a jab of her own, Tom has gotten to his feet and disappeared, leaving only an ache in the center of Florence’s chest and the tingling in her palm from where she has touched him. With a sickening feeling, Florence realizes he must have heard her inviting Radella to her home.

The question was now, what would she do about him?

.

.

.

“My dear,” Dumbledore smiled, “you are progressing quite well, all things considered.”

It was their usual Monday night session, and Florence was standing, panting slightly as she admired the silver plate she had just replicated. She had even managed to perfect the floral etching that circled the outer rim, a detail which sent tunnels of smugness running through her system. They’d been advancing through more difficult tasks, moving onto firmer materials like gold, silver, and lead. They required more application, and it took all of Florence’s concentration on her inner magic in order to achieve the desired result.

“Thanks,” she grinned, looking from her reflection in the plate into Dumbledore’s twinkling blue eyes. “It’s nice to be able to do something in these lessons since I just sit in your class and wave my wand around like an idiot.”

“I would have been pleasantly surprised if you could transfigure sentient creatures without any prior training, no matter your ability.”

“Still,” Florence says, seating herself upon the cushioned stool before his desk. “With Tom and Lizzie and Radella always perfecting their animals, it’s nice to feel like I’m at least moving forward.”

“And how are your lessons with Mr. Riddle progressing?” Dumbledore’s voice is still pleasant, but there is no longer a twinkle in his eyes as he meets Florence’s gaze. She remembers Tom’s anger when he had learned that she’d shared the origins of her magic with Dumbledore as well as him, Tom’s anger that Dumbledore still treated him like an errant orphan child.

“Well, Sir. Tom’s a good teacher. He likes to challenge me.”

“I can imagine so.” Dumbledore inclines his head to Florence. “Tom has been one of our most gifted and promising students since he walked through the doors of Hogwarts.”

“He told me you were the one to tell him about Hogwarts,” Florence says because she is unsure what to say. Dumbledore’s eyes widen marginally, as if he has been shocked.

“Did he now? I was not under the impression that Tom confided tales of his childhood in other people,” Dumbledore admits, shifting slightly in his seat. “Tom is remarkably private – I do believe his solitude is one reason, amongst many others, that Headmaster Dippet felt he would be best suited for the role of Head Boy.” This statement seemed to make a good deal of sense to Florence who was accustomed to long bouts of silence as she and Tom studied side by side, or the curt dismissals he gave to his peers in order to leave him and Florence alone.

“We’re going to see if I can use my native magic to duel this week in our lesson,” Florence says, unable to hide her eagerness. “He thinks there might be other applications beyond the uses I was taught.”

Dumbledore leans forward slightly as Florence speaks, as if she has suddenly grasped all of his sizeable attention. Before him, his fingers lace into a tent of sorts.

“Really? Most fascinating,” Dumbledore chimes. “Are you going to endeavor to teach Tom?”

“He’s asked,” Florence shrugs, “but I don’t think I can. Adsila taught me in Cherokee, and Tom doesn’t speak it.”

“Tom has a remarkable knack for understanding the very primitive basis of magic. It is what gives him such control of his inner core and makes him such a successful student.” Dumbledore has leaned back in his chair, but he is gazing over Florence’s shoulder as if she is no longer present. “I would not be surprised if Tom is able to learn more from you than you think, just by watching.”

“Yes, well, he’s a good teacher all the same.”

Florence can feel herself squirming upon her seat, unsure of why Dumbledore is telling her these things. He seemed to be thinking to himself more than conversing with her.

“Well if you make any headway,” Dumbledore says at last. “I would be delighted to hear of it. Perhaps it will give us further insight into your Transfiguration abilities.”

She agrees and thanks him for the lesson before sweeping from the room. It was a perfectly good natured conversation, but Florence cannot shake the sensation that Dumbledore had withheld something from her. But with a mountain of homework to greet her when she reached the common room, Florence’s suspicions soon faded from her thoughts.

.

.

.

They are in potions, their cauldrons steaming with wasps of silver vapor that have fallen around their ankles and now make the tables appear as if they are floating. Lizzie and Florence peer into their concoction, checking the ingredients one last time.

“Seems alright,” Florence says with a shrug. “Although I’m not as confident when we’re not dealing with an antidote.”

“I made this last Summer with my father,” Lizzie frowns, rereading the paragraph that describes the particular lavender shade their potion was supposed to have taken. Currently, theirs had a slight milky quality. “I think we may need to stir a few more times.”

“Do you make potions often with your dad?” Florence asks as she reaches for her stirring spoon, moving it in a counterclockwise motion within the cauldron. Lizzie’s head rolls to one side as she considers.

“No, but father likes to test me during the Summer sometimes – to see if I’m staying sharp.”

“Albion and Owen used to do that to each other,” Florence agrees with a nod, watching as their mixture darkens slightly with another stir. “Once they were both sixteen they starting dueling all the time. Drove my mom mad.”

“Speaking of your family,” Lizzie said, eyes also glued on the potion. “Tell me more about what I should expect over the Holiday. My mother agreed to let me visit, by the way.”

“Good. I would have been personally offended if she hadn’t,” Florence teased. “And nothing too spectacular if you’re leaving before the new year.”

“Yes, Philip and I will both need to get home in time for the Yule celebration at the Malfoys.”

“Well, I’m sure we will have some nice suppers with some friends, and you and I will have the chance to ride. Maybe a luncheon or two, but otherwise relatively casual.”

“So Philip, Radella, and I are the only people coming?” it’s a particularly pointed question. Florence focuses intently upon their potion, ignoring Elizabeth’s cool stare.

“Florence, answer me.”

“Yes, as of right now, you three.”

“Right now?”

“What do you want me to say, Lizzie?” Florence groans, finally turning to look at her friend.

“I want to know if I’m going to have to watch Riddle stare at you like you are a roast and he is the carving knife, or if I will be spared from his incessant presence.”

Florence’s mouth falls open, and then she laughs. It’s a crude but somewhat honest depiction of Tom’s fascination with Florence. She’d never considered how the looks he gave her must appear to others who couldn’t feel it’s heat.

“I’ve thought about asking him, but I don’t know how my parents would take it,” Florence admits, thinking of her debut.

“You spend every second with that boy and now suddenly you’re thinking of your parents?” There is a hint of annoyance in Lizzie’s tone.

“You don’t understand, Lizzie-” Florence began, but her friend cut her off.

“In fact I do. Honestly, do you think I didn’t know how Philip felt about me?” Lizzie demands. “I had to make a decision that was best for my family, as do you.”

“We’re not dating, Lizzie.”

“As if the nomenclature matters!” Lizzie rolls her eyes so forcefully that Florence wonders if they are going to pop out of her head. “Riddle has never so much as _looked_ at a girl in Hogwarts, and certainly not because there weren’t options, but he’s taken to following you around like a dog.”

“I didn’t ask Tom too!”

“You didn’t have too,” Elizabeth retorts. “The moment you two started dancing at the Samhain gala, it was as good as set in iron. And don’t try and hide your feelings from me, I know how happy you get whenever he pops up to walk you to class or read with you.”

“Yes, alright, fine,” Florence growls. “I like spending time with Tom, are you happy?”

“No, I’m not, because you’re either going to have to tell him that you’re going to marry some Southern bumpkin, or you’re going to have to man up and invite him to America for the holidays and let him compete for your hand, and either way I have a feeling I’m going to have to deal with your emotions.”

“You make me sound like such a burden, Lizzie!” Florence feels tense, as if she’s being shot at from multiple points.

“Of course you’re not a burden,” Lizzie says at once, slightly abashed, her gaze softer. “It’s just… I should have made the situation clearer to Philip years ago… there was never a chance, and now, he’s so sad whenever he looks at me. I feel like I’ve ruined whatever hope we had for friendship.”

Florence and Lizzie have not spoken about her engagement except for the evening of the announcement when she’d congratulated Lizzie with hugs and laughs and a gift of candy she’d been saving from Hogsmeade. They’d certainly never spoken about Philip’s feelings, but listening to Lizzie now, Florence could easily peel away the layers of her friend’s attack to see that she was only giving her advice she herself had wished she’d received.

“Philip is forgiving, I know he’s sad now, but there’s no doubt in my mind he will come around.”

“Yes, of course, you’re right,” Lizzie says, swallowing audibly in an attempt to hide the warbling in her voice. Florence pretends not to notice Lizzie blink several times in rapid succession to clear her eyes. “He really is a good friend.”

“So are you, Liz,” Florence encourages. “Y’all will find a way through this. Besides, he’d have been an idiot not too be attracted to you, don’t hold yourself too responsible.”

“I’m nervous, Florence,” Lizzie says, and her voice is so quiet and so dry Florence almost doesn’t catch it. The blonde girl is stirring the potion erratically, and Florence has to reach out and physically stop her from mauling their assignment.

“About the wedding?”

“Yes.”

“It’s okay to be nervous, Lizzie,” Florence tells her friend because there is nothing else to say.

“I don’t even know if I _know_ Avery, but I feel so _much_ for him it terrifies me.”

It is perhaps the most honest thing Elizabeth has ever said to Florence, and in the midst of a potions lesson no less. Florence, perhaps for the first time, is reminded that despite her friend’s hard exterior, she is still a young woman with feelings as deep and flowing as her own. Lizzie’s words echo around Florence’s head, ringing a truth within her. Again, the nauseous, slippery wave of inevitability rears its head, the midnight of Tom’s eyes hovering in her periphery.

“I know how you feel,” Florence says. Lizzie snorts.

“No, I don’t think you do.”

“Lizzie, why do you think I’d be so horrified to have Tom meet my parents?” Florence is speaking so quickly her words stumble over each other. “What if they don’t _like_ him?”

The two girls stare at each other, Florence with a front row seat to watch the realization dawn through Lizzie’s summer blue eyes. They both know that Tom has no wealth, no family name, and even with his outstanding magical ability, there is no guarantee that he will go on to make a man of worth out of himself. Tom’s eligibility could be discussed if – as Slughorn hoped – he went on to a promising career in the Ministry, but his intelligence alone would not win over Florence’s parents.

“Oh god, Florence.”

There is a stinging at the back of Florence’s eyes, and she has to turn away. Florence has only known Tom for three months, and yet she cannot imagine that there will ever come a time when she will not feel electrified by his presence, be overwhelmed by the urge to crawl under his skin and to roost there. She thinks of the way his fingers dance across her skin in innocent brushes, and doubts very seriously that anyone could ever replicate such a feeling. The thought makes her miserable.

“Florence, I think you should invite him. I know it goes against what I said, but…” Lizzie murmurs. “But, I think you’ll regret it if you don’t try.”

It is sound advice, but it does nothing to still the quailing within Florence’s chest. There was a sinking feeling within her that she was too far gone to truly consider not inviting Tom. She wanted to show him her entire world, to take him to Adsila’s grave, to show him the river she’d played in as a child. Florence wanted to watch Tom’s eyes glow with pleasure as she showed him her native magic, to open her world to his. She thought she might faint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently working on chapter 25, further I get along the more ideas I have that I'm trying to work into this story. Things have been looking up for me for the past few days, and I just wanted to thank everyone reading this still and taking time to comment/kudo!!! Seeing your thoughts or appreciation is one of the best parts of my day:)


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

“Possessions can be, and most often are, a distraction from the real work of a knight's life. A lion doesn't own anything at all, yet we all know his power.”  
― Ethan Hawke, Rules for a Knight

Tom was bored. His meetings with his followers lacked the certain _ambiance_ they had held when he’d dragged them all down to the Chamber, and now cloistered in the seventh year boy’s dormitory, Tom felt himself less interested in the discussion than he once might have been.

They were all present: Nott, Avery, Lestrange, and the others too. Mulciber, the Fawley boy trembling in the wings, and a few select half-bloods that had proven their worth through a particular vein of violence. Julianne Grady, a waspish fifth year, had a specific knack for casting non-traceable, nonverbal hexes, while the lanky, hooded Oliver Bromley was one of the best potioneers in the castle. In due time, Tom had no doubt that he would be very useful for whipping up a variety of poisons. Others had graduated from his direct supervision, such as Abraxas Malfoy who still reported to him from the Ministry, or Orion Black, but there was no mistaking who was in charge despite their age differences.

He had taken care to gather all of them, to learn their strengths, more importantly their weaknesses. The pure bloods were needed for their influence, the half-bloods for their skills. And Tom? Tom was needed for the larger picture. _You have very big thoughts_. Florence’s words reverberated through him, warming that spot in his chest that he had never known existed, and he smirked.

How very right she was.

He’d been more remarkable than all those useless children in that orphanage, forced to co-exist with them, to share their pathetic worldly burdens when he’d known, he’d _known_ he was worth so much more. And then he’d gotten to Hogwarts only to discover that everyone here was just as uninteresting, mindless and boring and willing to let the stupid moral arguments of right and wrong determine how far they could stretch. But again Tom had known, he’d pursued magic they had never considered, never dreamed of. His _pathetic_ excuse for a mother had succumbed to death, but not even Death could rule him. He’d mastered enchantments never before attempted, magic worthy of his heritage. And soon enough, he’d leave his filthy muggle name behind, shedding the last of his so-seeming _average_ exterior for the man he had always been destined to be.

“Riddle,” a voice cuts through his wandering thoughts, and Tom turns to see Leonidas has stepped forward, eyes cast down to the floor in a deferential act. He’d gathered them here to discuss plans for the rest of the year, and plans for after graduation. Tom had plans to travel, to study deeper lore and magic from every corner of the Earth, but he would need those under him who were graduating to secure key positions in the Ministry and in business. When he returned, he wanted wizarding Britain ripe for the taking.

There was also, warring within him and his larger plans, the desire to teach. Tom could not deny that Hogwarts had been a home, a refuge of sorts to him. Denied the upbringing he was worthy of, the magic and prestige of the castle opening its doors and secrets to him and felt something of a birthright. In a sense it _was_ his. He’d felt the chamber calling to him the moment he’d stepped onto Hogwarts’ grounds, _his_ ancestor had helped to carve this place from nothing. Yet teaching seemed so _common_ , to reside near that place in his chest that Florence had come to occupy, a place that Tom could not understanding to his utmost fury.

But there was also the need to find certain _objects_. He’d never raised these concerns to any gathered before him, but if he was to follow through with his most important plan, he would need to find the locket, the other potential items that he had deemed worthy. That part of his plan still remained hazy – he was unsure how to pick up the trail of the last of Slytherin’s heirlooms. But Tom remained unworried, there had yet to be a problem he couldn’t resolve.

“What Lestrange.”

“My father has sent word from the Auror’s office – it seems Spencer-Moon has asked Dumbledore again to deal with the Grindelwald… _situation_.”

“I see,” Tom says, and Lestrange steps back into the circle. It wasn’t particularly insightful information. Grindelwald had amassed power across continental Europe, but his reticence to attack Britain would be his downfall. If only he’d moved quicker, been more decisive, perhaps the great wizard would have prevailed. But his power had waned as the British Ministry founded a defense – and the idiot had decided to attack Russia during the height of winter. _A fool_ Tom knew, but at the least, he had shown Tom what it would take to gain control. Cunning, and a ruthless edge.

“I am sure many of you have plans for the holiday,” Tom began at last, and silence fell at once, resolute and firm. Tom smirked. “While I do hope you enjoy yourselves, it is of the utmost importance you bring no _embarrassment_ upon us.”

Tom let his eyes flick from face to face. Most people were looking at his feet, others slightly pale but meeting his gaze. He’d forgotten how much he liked these meetings, the flexing of his power of these useless others. He continued.

“And, should you feel the uncontrollable need to act on any urges before the term ends, I expect to be fully updated on plans before any decisions are made. Furthermore – ”

But Tom was cut off as the door to the dormitory flew open with a bang. For one brief moment, Tom considered drawing his wand as a spike of rage flew through him, and then he spotted the flash of caramel curls, saw the sun kissed skin of Florence Allman, and at once his anger subsided as if cooled with a salve. Florence was panting, but in the umber of her eyes Tom could see the frantic, wild look she’d held on Samhain, a pink glow burnishing her cheeks as her chest rose and fell. Had she run here? How had she gotten in? Tom feels his face split into a smirk at the thought that she had waited outside the Slytherin common room to be let in, just to see _him._

“Florence,” Tom calls, letting his voice deepen, and at once her face reddens deeper. _I like the way you say my name_ she’d told him at the Greengrass’ as if giving away one of her closest held secrets. He said it over and over, because he could and because he loved the way she reacted to him – to _only_ him.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says, but moves forward into the room anyways because that was a lie, walking with her shoulders thrown back and chin held high as if the space is hers. Florence moves directly towards him until she is standing just by his side, her gaze only for Tom, clearly perfectly happy to interrupt their meeting as long as she can speak with him.

“Florence,” Tom repeats again, this time quieter, just for her. The girl before him threatens to turn crimson, and he can see the familiar spark of annoyance in her eye with herself for the uncontrolled emotion, for the perceived embarrassment in front of their classmates. “What are you doing here?”

Tom doesn’t really care what her answer is, it is enough that she has sought him out, especially after he had discovered that others were being invited to her home in America and not he.

 _That_ had been infuriating.

He’d cursed several of the people currently around him for a few hours before he’d been able to reign in his temper.

“I just… well I just _learned_ something and I wanted to show you,” she whispers, but the gleam in her eye hasn’t faded and Tom can feel the electricity that seems to be radiating from her skin, taste the metal in the air. Whatever it is, Tom knows it is not a mere charm or jinx. “And I wanted to see you,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, her eyes straying to his throat. Tom watches, transfixed as her tongue wets her lips, her cheeks darken again. Something within him feels like it is expanding, his chest growing lighter and lighter, the familiar energy between them stirring his madness.

 _Yes,_ he thinks as he watches her eyes trace the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, _this is power._

He doesn’t know if anyone has every sought him out just for the pure satisfaction of his company. Again he is struck by the idea that this is something _normal_ people do, seeking the closeness of their friends. But Tom has never had friends, and Florence is too powerful, so much _more_ to him than a friend. Yet he cannot deny that her everyday action has moved some part of him.

“I’m busy,” he tells her, lifting his hand to run a finger down the side of her neck. Around them, his followers shuffle, casting their eyes away from Tom’s display. He can feel their unease, their questioning glances wondering why Tom has not cursed Florence, sent her from his presence. The thought makes him want to laugh – that they are so painfully average that they cannot feel the magic radiating off of her skin, the current that passes through his fingers with every stroke of Florence’s body.

What a thrill it had been to learn that Florence would let him touch her whenever he liked, that he could control her with so little as a look, one utterance of her name. He had taken advantage of it every time he could, marking her as his own each moment she drew close. So what that her presence seemed to likewise reduce him to putty – that could be ignored when her skin was pressed against his, when Florence allowed the pads of his fingers to trace her jaw, her collarbone, the curve of her waist. Before him, Florence’s breathing is unsteady, the fluttering within Tom increasing.

“Oh yes,” she smirks, the brashness of her mouth still refusing to quail despite her flustered appearance. “It seems like y’all are really, really _busy_.” Florence’s eyes leave his in order to circle the room, something that bothers him for an unknown reason. Yet, ever resourceful, Tom uses the slight shift in her body to brush her hair out of the way, his hand trailing over her shoulder to her back where his fingers can trace up and down her spine. The shiver that runs through her at his actions is invisible, but Tom can feel it reverberate through his hand and his smirk broadens into a full smile.

Around him, his followers are staring open mouthed at Florence – perhaps in shock that she can speak so frankly too him. _When you master drawing upon exterior magic sources_ he wants to snap as the assembled students _then perhaps we can discuss the worth of your opinions_. He ignores the voice in his head that tells him he was fascinated by Florence long before he knew of her capabilities.

“Well, you did interrupt us,” Tom points out. She frowns at him, at last her eyes returning to his. _Where they belong._

“Yes, well, I need to speak with you.”

“You are speaking with me.”

“Christ, Tom.” Her anger grows. Tom wonders how far he will have to push her for lightning to crackle through her hair, for her to radiate magic in waves so intoxicating that they make Tom forget his name. But then again, he doesn’t want to share _that_ Florence with anyone else. Suddenly, he wishes they were alone.

“How’d you get in here, Allman?” Avery asks from across the room.

“Obviously I found a first year and told him that if he didn’t let me in I’d hex him.”

“You can’t hex anyone though, Florence,” Tom whispers, leaning his face down so that again, she must look at him. Her face blushes.

“Well _he_ didn’t need to know that,” she retorts under her breath.

“You have interrupted us,” Julianne Grady interjects, her voice cold and sharp. “And you’re not to be in our common room.” Tom feels a ripple of annoyance flood through him at Grady’s tone.

“Yes, well, I didn’t know there was anything to interrupt,” Florence replies equally as cool. “And considering I don’t even know who _you_ are, and I’m certainly not looking for _you_ , I’m kindly asking you to shut up.” Avery laughs out loud. Lestrange smirks.

Florence’s voice is haughty and harsh and Tom feels an odd flush of pleasure run through him at the way she speaks, even if it is most likely a mixed result of her aristocratic upbringing and the sense of isolation in this room of Slytherins. He likes Florence angry, slightly unhinged, and his hand on her back grows more insistent.

“Tom, _please_ ,” she turns to face him again, and god she’s resorted to _begging_ – the most delicious sound. He has no idea why her pleading makes something in his chest ache, but it does. He hopes that she will do it again and again and again.

“ _Please_. I really want to show you.”

In the end that was all it took. He gives her a slight nod, and with a smile so wide it bisects her face in two, Florence takes his hand and pulls him from the room, flipping her hair over her shoulder and drawing Tom in closer in a blatantly possessive move that matches the final smug look that Florence casts to Julianne. In a flash they are down the stairs, and Florence is pushing open the doors to the common room, leading them out into the stone corridor of the dungeons.

“What were you working on?” Tom asks, letting go of her hand so that he can wrap his arm around Florence’s shoulder. She softens under his touch, her own arm wrapping around his torso so that her fingers can knot in the starchy white material of his shirt, so that she can pull him flush to her side. Tom is not upset that she has taken him from the gathering – he wants to see whatever it is that has riled her so. His followers know his expectations, but Florence is always so _unexpected_.

“Well I was practicing for our lesson this week,” she begins, her fingers sinking into the side of his abdomen as if she is gluing herself too him. The ache in his chest intensifies as Tom pictures her practicing magic on _his_ behalf. It’s an oddly effecting scene, one that seems to awaken the part of him that only Florene can reach. “And, well I don’t want to give anything away, but I think I figured something out.”

“Alright,” he agrees, and the hunger within him stirs.

Tom lets Florence lead him out onto the grounds of the castle and down towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest near the Black Lake where they cannot be seen by prying eyes or students in their tower dormitories. It is a sunny day, but the air is cold and biting, and Tom finds that he is thankful for Florence’s proximity for more reason than one. When at last they reach the edge of the water, Florence slips away and Tom swallows the feeling of loss because the manic gleam has returned to her eyes.

“I have no idea how to work with my magic beyond the elements,” Florence began as she bent over to remove her shoes. “But the more I thought about it, I felt like there were at least some elements I could control to provide the same results as casting a spell with my wand.”

Tom nods his agreement, her logic as of right now sound, but he does not speak. His curiosity is peaked and Tom fears that if he opens his mouth, he may frighten her.

“I’m just going to try it again,” she murmurs, smiling at him again. “And when I nod at you, I want you to try and hex me.”

Tom gives her the biggest grin that he has. Florence matches him. _At least she is not boring_ he thinks.

Tom does not believe he will ever tire of watching her perform her native magic. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that the ceremony by which Florence approaches it is cumbersome and slow, and that if native magic was to be truly utilized, the process must be expedited. Yet there is something arcane in the lit of her voice, in the energy that rakes through the air and across his skin that makes Tom feel entirely unhinged, prepared to prostrate himself at her feet. The soles of Florence’s heels drag across the grass, her hands pressed into the air before her, eyes closed as she speaks in a language that Tom cannot comprehend. The words are fast and harsh and the air around them seems to be trembling, and then to his surprise, Tom cannot hear her at all, the energy that was thundering through the air simply vanished.

Florence opens her eyes and grins, savage and catlike and her hair is floating through the air, hands outstretched before her and Tom has the sinking thought that she is _beautiful_ and he wants to claim her. She nods at him.

With ease Tom pulls his wand from his pocket, unsure what she has done, but eager to test her defenses. He casts a simple stinging hex at Florence without consideration, more of a curiosity really, but around ten feet before her the beam of yellow light is redirected, bouncing into the woods where it hits a trunk and explodes. Tom can feel his mouth bending into a smirk, his feet reshuffling to form a stronger stance. _So she has erected a shield_ he thinks. _It is no matter, she has never resisted me before_.

The next spell he throws at Florence is a jet of his telltale blue flames, in the center white hot and deadly. Tom can feel the energy in his casting, and yet again, his enchantment is redirected, the fire splitting into two streams and wrapping around Florence as if she is under a dome. When at last he drops his wand, Florence is smirking, her legs wide, arms shaking slightly, but resolute and bold. Tom has this indescribable urge to break her.

Fully convinced of the strength of her shield, Tom’s next spell is dark, crackling through the air in a deep purple bolt that shakes the very ground they are standing upon. He has never attempted it, but the theory was clear in the text he’d read. The power it emits is enough to send Tom reeling – a new favorite then it would seem. But again, Florence’s shield has redirected his spell, sending the deadly bolt of chaos ricocheting across the lake where it is at last swallowed by the waves. 

He doesn’t stop. Spell after spell Tom throws at Florence’s protection, and spell after spell Tom watches rebound off of her shield. He is hypnotized, drawn to the curve of her lips as she sings her magic into being, thrilled to _at last_ have an opponent to truly test his strength against. Over and over he wonders how he could have found her unremarkable, how long it will take him to expand her strength, to mold her into a weapon for his use.

Tom is panting when he finally stores his wand. Florence too appears out of breath from the distance in between them, but her hands are still outstretched, her face still feral with the pleasure of magic, of her own ability. Tom is walking towards her without thought because she is smiling at him and her eyes are melting with his own and he wants her so desperately he does not know how to think or even how to breathe. Yet ten feet before Florence, close enough to see the rising and falling of her chest, the small pulses of purple electricity that flicker through her hair, Tom’s hand collides with a seemingly invisible wall.

He presses both his hands against the surface, testing it. It is smooth, seamless, and slightly curved, extending into the air above and on either side of him. The wall is vibrating with the surge of magic that is entirely Florence, her register as familiar to him as the pattern of freckles under her eyes. The hunger within his gut is ravenous. He wants to know how she has done it. He wants _her_.

Florence speaks, but through the barrier she has created, Tom cannot hear her. He does not need too. Her lips form one word – his name – the filthy muggle name he has hated since it was told to him, but the name which she has made her own, which she has taken from him and christened anew.

“Florence,” he calls, pressing his hands against the unbudgingly firm surface of her shield. Their eyes meet for another moment, and then her hands fall and she is in his arms and he has pressed his lips against hers in crashing, lilting moment of fate.

Of all the times he has touched her, _nothing_ compares to this.

Florence blooms under his touch, her lips working in tandem with Tom’s as he presses her against him, almost as if to inhale her. Tom’s fingers tangle in her hair, knotting where he has always wanted them, and he can feel the surges of lighting that ricochet up his arms, his magic grappling with the assault of her own. It is pain and ecstasy and _god_ how is she still not close enough even with her entire body pressed against his, her lips his for the taking, her mouth warm and inviting?

Vaguely he registers that Florence’s arms have slid around his neck, that one hand has fisted in his hair. He kisses her and she is kissing him back and he’s never done this before but it doesn’t matter because he’s never been so certain of anything in his life. Florence is divinity and magic incarnate, and in this moment she has offered herself to him and he will have her.

“Tom,” she whispers into his lips and it is a breathless moan. Tom smirks and claims her mouth again, because her obvious need for him has made him feel giddy with power, has electrified that foreign part of his being which has no name but the capability to reduce him to ash. He feels the elation he associates with discovering he was a wizard burn through him, as if somehow he has won something.

Then suddenly, Florence’s elbows have locked and she has pushed their faces apart, her chest rising and falling so rapidly he wonders if she is breathing at all. Tom wants to pull her towards him again, wants to feel the wildness that they just shared every day for the rest of his life, but Florence instead silences him with words that are, if possible, even more captivating then the feeling of her lips upon his.

“I want you to come to America,” she breathes, leaning against him as if her knees have just buckled. Tom wraps an arm around her waist, locking her against his frame where she belongs. “For the holidays, if you want to come, I want you there.”

“You want me to come to America?” He repeats, tugging at her hair so that her head falls to the side and he can press his lips to the hollow under her ear, unable to resist even for a moment the temptation to press his mouth to her skin. Florence lets out a shuddering breath that sharpens every nerve within Tom’s body until he thinks he is on fire. He knows what her answer will be, but he wants to hear her say it again.

“Of course I want you there.” Florence’s hand that is imbedded in his hair slides down to his neck, pressing his face deeper against her throat. Tom feels himself smirk at her wantonness, his lips sliding to capture the corner of her jaw. “You can stay for the whole holiday if you’d like, I don’t care, I just want you there.”

Her voice has taken on the echoing quality it does when she is being earnest, when her pure-blooded pride has been stripped away to leave only the girl behind. Tom can feel her trembling in his grasp, every curve of her body flush against his own. He is unsure if he has ever felt stronger.

“Tom?” She whispers, and her voice is pleading, his name a prayer upon her lips seeking him out for an answer, and so he gives her one.

Tom kisses her again, this time slow and steady and savoring the honey of her tongue, the rush that seems to explode through his body with every meeting of their skin.

“I’ll be there,” he whispers against her lips, and the last few remains of tension flea Florence’s body. To his absolute delight, she laughs – loud and crisp – and then pulls his face to hers in a decidedly possessive gesture that sends his pride preening with smugness. Her teeth sink into his bottom lip, her mouth wide, pushing against his. Along his neck he can feel her fingernails puncturing his skin as she bends his face down towards hers. There is a moment of fear when he feels a moan shiver through her throat, tightening his core all the way down to his navel where heat has been pooling since the moment their lips met. _Have I died?_ He wondered, pulling Florence against him still further. _Only in death could this pleasure be real_ he thinks, almost drunkenly, fear curling with his desire because he’s never felt so helpless to emotion.

It is a long while later that Tom leads Florence back up to the castle to deliver a message to her mother, his mouth upturned in a smirk like a returning crusader.

“How did you do it?” Tom asks as the reach the Entrance Hall. “Your shield?”

“Oh,” Florence smiles, a glimmer of excitement stirring in her gaze. “I compressed the air around me. The molecules were packed so densely that even magic couldn’t pass through.”

“Clever,” he croons, again wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

“If I was more clever, I wouldn’t have told you,” Florence says with a laugh. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to get around it now.”

Tom doesn’t answer, his smile clue enough. She is correct that he will find a way to use this knowledge against her. After all, he’s never not gotten what he wanted – the young woman pressed to his side a testament to that fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I'm probably going to take a break from posting after this chapter. Not too long, but I'm straight up not having a good time on here these days, and since this is my outlet and source of fun, I don't want to be on here while it doesn't feel that way. Thank you as always to the people to take time to comment, kudos, and bookmark my work. I wake up every morning looking forward to seeing your thoughts, and I'm oh so grateful for each of you!! 
> 
> Also, they finally kissed:) only took 19 chapters of pining and angst, but MAN it was fun to write. Up next... America!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow - I just wanted to say thank you for all of the incredible comments and kudos I received during this short break. I mean, there simply aren't words for how kind each person who leaves a review is and how much your thoughts mean to me!! Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> I'm back with another chapter:) Working on chapter 25 still - life has sped up a bit so my updating may be a bit slower, but I promise I'm going to try and churn things out for you all! Happy reading Xx

**Chapter 20**

“He saw clearly how plain and simple - how narrow, even - it all was; but clearly, too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such anchorage in one's existence. He did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he must return to the larger stage. But it was good to think he had this to come back to, this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome.”  
― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows

November passes into December with sheets of rain and wind that pounds at the castle walls, and still Tom and Florence have not discussed this _thing_ between them which has only grown more feral and uncontainable with time. At night Florence lays in bed and wonders if there is even a name for it, or if perhaps they are carving something new, something shared between the two of them and magic itself. The thought is frightening, and yet arresting, and thoughts of him follow Florence even into sleep where Tom flits in and out of her mind on passing dreams.

Tom does not bring her flowers, but he does teach her how to cast warming charms and leg locker curses, and even how to cast a stunning spell, a gift that will not wilt with time, a gift of power and of magic like his offering to the Samhain fire. He patiently falls to the floor when the red jet of light hits him in the chest, and Florence is so drunk with victory and the rush of magic, that when she kneels over Tom to press her lips to his frozen cheek, she has not realized that he has wandlessly reversed her spell, capable of pushing her against the floor and pinning her within a welcome cage of arms and legs. _Well done_ , he’d told her, and she’d felt that part of her chest that was devoted solely to him grow slightly larger.

Tom did not offer her meaningless compliments, but he did sneak her into the greenhouses on the night of the full moon, whispering into her ear his deepest desire to watch her tame the murderous flora with merely the slightest intone of her voice, the movement of her hand. He’d observed from the corner like a starved man at a feast as Florence summoned blooms and cured poisons and danced under the silver light of the moon as if they were one. His look said more than any words he might have said, and still the cavity in her chest grew to make room for him.

Tom wrote to her too, copied passages describing the feats of sorceresses of old in short, neat handwriting that flowed in elegant lines. Tales of Medea and Circe and Morgana le Fay, of their power over the world, over the men who were no more than rocks in their path. _You will be remembered as one amongst their number_ he would write at the bottom of the parchment. _You will move mountains and be exalted for it_. And Florence chose to believe it, because she’d never met a man who’d seen her as anything more than a young girl set to one day be married off, and because to Tom, magic was all that mattered, and this was the highest compliment he was able to give. That he deemed her worthy. That he thought her powerful.

But her favorite moments were none of these. They came in between, nestled on a sofa in the Slytherin common room or in chairs in the library. Tom would sit rigid and prestigious, his polite Head Boy mask upon his face, while Florence would lay languid and loose, her head upon his chest or lap. He would read some book on arcane German enchantments or mystic beings of the Amazon while Florence struggled through a charms essay Tom could have written with his eyes closed. His fingers would trace the contours of her face or snake through her hair and they wouldn’t say anything at all, as if their individual fires had clashed and subsided in the presence of one another.

“Today you are Hector, stalwart of Troy,” Florence whispered in his ear when one day she found him assisting a group of lost first years as they attempted to find the quidditch pitch, his Head Boy’s badge gleaming in the torchlight.

“Odysseus, this afternoon,” she supplied when Tom told her he had again convinced Slughorn for what must have been the hundredth time to give him a pass into the restricted section of the library, conniving and profusely complimentary of the besotted old man in order to get what he wanted.

But must often, Tom was Achilles, silent and proud at meals, honorably holding doors open for Florence and his fellow classmates, incomparable in their classes and private sessions where his magic flowed only as an extension of his being. No one was his equal except Florence who he had chosen, and in these moments she felt that she might burst with that nameless emotion he had carved a place for under her ribs.

Yet if Tom was Achilles, who did that make Florence? Patroclus, doomed to die for his companion, or Briseis, who sent him spiraling into madness. And would Tom too pass before his time – a candle that burned faster for it’s unparalleled heat? The thoughts made her spin until she was able to bury her face in Tom’s neck and tangle her hand in his hair and forget the quivering in her heart.

Slughorn’s Yule party came the Friday before they were set to depart for the holidays. Tom did not ask Florence to attend with him, but he nevertheless arrived dutifully in the Ravenclaw common room to watch her move down the stairs in a navy gown as dark as his eyes. The twittering of girls unable to keep their eyes off of Tom as the young Byronic hero had fallen upon deaf ears as he watched Florence move. His gaze said more than his mouth ever could, the flush of his pale skin, the tightening of his jaw. When his hands brought Florence’s to his mouth to press his lips to her knuckles, she wondered how he managed to tell such a story with his look alone.

“I knew you two would find each other,” Slughorn beamed as they entered his chambers arm in arm that evening. Lizzie and Pyrrhus followed after, and Philip had brought a sixth year Gryffindor that Fleamont had introduced him too. Their potions master had eyes for no one but Tom – a fact that had made him wildly tense beside her, giving Florence ample opportunity to laugh at him.

“I did try and invite your father, Miss Allman, but he said he just couldn’t be spared from his work,” Slughorn continued, turning to address Florence.

“Yes, his first shipments of Dittany arrived here in the past fortnight. I do believe he’s spent every hour of every day since then overseeing the brewing process.”

“Like I said, a splendid potioneer, but I do wish Clifford would learn to enjoy life a bit more,” Slughorn whined, his face already reddening from the tumbler of firewhiskey held in his grasp. Florence privately wished her father was here as well, but for quite a different reason than Clifford Allman’s supposed social stiffness. One of their ships had been attacked as it carried harvested Dittany stalks across the Atlantic. No one had been hurt according to her father’s letter, but it was clear to her that somehow Grindelwald had gotten word of her father’s partnership with the DMLE. The less time, therefore, that Florence’s dad spent in England, the farther he was from harm she’d decided.

“I look forward to meeting your father,” Tom had told her when Slughorn waddled off to great a famous Magizoologist from Cambodia who was visiting on a research grant.

“He’s brilliant,” Florence had confirmed, and Tom had hardened slightly under her touch because she only ever referred to _him_ as such, and Tom – as she had learned after the Radella invitation scandal weeks ago in the library – could be very jealous at times. “And so are you,” she soothed, tucking a chocolate curl behind his ear, letting her nails run along the tendons in his neck. “I’m sure he will be able to tell you things about magic I have never imagined.”

And Tom had swept her onto the dance floor and supplied her with enough champagne to make her laugh and press her lips to the pulse in his throat despite the crowd assembled. Slughorn had reappeared repeatedly to drag Tom away to meet with so-and-so from the Ministry or a famous author or auror, and in these moments Florence would find Radella or Lizzie who would tease her for her childish behavior.

“Your family is going to have a heart attack when they see the way you look at that boy,” Lizzie reprimanded, Pyrrhus off to fetch his soon to be fiancé a drink.

“I’m sure. Although even if he wasn’t coming, Albion would find a way to tease me about Philip or some other boy he met at Samhain,” Florence agreed.

“Have you told Tom that your parents will be observing him?”

“No, I don’t think he would understand,” Florence admitted. _Marriage and childrearing_ he’d scorned of Lizzie and Pyrrhus’s betrothal. Tom had said the two words as if they were trivial, meaningless pursuits in a world where he could turn coal to gold or master curses ten thousand years old.

And Tom had swept over in his black dress robes at that moment, ending the conversation because he had smiled at her in all his brilliance, leaning forward to whisper into Florence’s ear that she was _beautiful_ , watching as her skin turned from bronzed to rosy with a satisfied expression upon his face.

“Florence,” he murmured, offering her his hand. She took it, the now common spark of magic burning across her skin.

“Tom,” she responded, watching for the slip in his mask as she said his name because she’d gotten another key to his blank exterior – that his name could be weaponized in the same manner as hers. He pulled her once more onto the dance floor without a word, and Florence again swallowed her fears for the holidays to live in the moment with Tom where no one could take him from her.

.

.

.

They stand in professor Dippet’s office once more, the five of them dressed in clothing more suitable for travel than their Hogwarts uniforms. Thick wool cloaks for all, simple traveling gowns for the girls, and dark slacks and sports coats for Tom and Philip. Florence’s mouth had gone instantly dry at the sight of Tom in a dark navy coat and simple white button down which revealed the protruding of his collarbone, the hollow at the base of his neck. He’d smirked at her, as if he’d known the line of her thoughts. Of course she’d blushed in return, much to Tom’s shadowed delight.

“All five of you are traveling to the Allman residence in Somerset?” Merrythought asks, checking a roll of parchment beside the cavernous fireplace.

“Yes, Professor,” Florence confirms. They would be traveling to Somerset where an international portkey would take them to customs in Savannah, and where at last they would be able to go to their townhome and portkey to Spectre where the family carriage would be waiting to take them to Florence’s home. Florence’s mother had given express instructions in her latest letter explaining the various steps, and articulating the importance of timeliness. In some sense, she was thankful for the roundabout route they were being forced to take. It gave Florence things to focus on beyond the welling excitement within her chest, the thrill at having those people closest to her welcomed into her home, the fears that gripped her that somehow life in Georgia would have changed drastically while she was away. It was overwhelming at times, so much so that Florence had hardly slept the night before, but the process of traveling from home to home calmed the racing of her heart, even if just slightly.

“Well, on you go then,” Merrythought says, motioning them forward into the fireplace. Radella, Lizzie, and Florence step into the flames together, interlocking their arms and throwing pinches of green powder into the fire. Florence’s last sight of the Headmaster’s office is of Tom, one hand stuffed into his pocket, leaning casually to the side, a vision of Hollywood glamour before she speaks.

“Gardiner Manor,” Florence states, and they are whirling away only to reappear moments later in a small sitting room with cream walls and deep crimson velvet curtains. Directly before them is the silver hairbrush upon a wooden side table that Florence had been directed would be there. A letter is beside it which she reaches for once, ignorant of Tom appearing behind her with Philip a moment later.

“Charming home,” Lizzie says aloud as she glances out the window to view the neat English hedges that have been trimmed into a variety of patterns.

“The portkey leaves in five minutes,” Florence says, reading the letter in the all too familiar script of her father. Tom stands beside Florence, his hand coming rest on her hip as he reads the letter over her shoulder, silent and steady as she swallows the tears that bloom behind her eyes.

_Florence,_

_I will be in England for a few more days to insure the safety of my staff during these last few days of the brewing process. I hope to follow you home to Georgia soon. I wish I could have been at Gardiner when you and your friends arrived, but work has been taxing these past weeks and I truly couldn’t be spared._

_The portkey leaves sharply at 2 o’clock. Should you miss it, I went to the effort of purchasing another which can be found on the dining room table. The second shall depart at 3._

_I can hardly wait for our family to be together again._

_Love,_

_Dad_

“How long do you think customs is going to take?” Philip asks, staring at a portrait of a man snoring in his frame above the grate.

“No idea,” Florence admits, placing her hand over Tom’s and giving it a grateful squeeze. He remains silent. “Savannah is a big business hub, but it doesn’t get nearly as many visitors as New York or Washington so I can’t imagine it’ll be very crowded.”

“I’m so excited to see America,” Radella gushes, her delicate features glowing with excitement that is surely contagious because at once Florence’s sadness at her Father’s letter melts away.

“You’ll have to talk to Owen about Transfiguration, Radella,” Florence encourages. “He’s incredible.”

“Portkey leaves in a minute,” Lizzie calls, and all five of them gather around the hairbrush, pressing a finger to the silver surface. After a moment of waiting, tightness expanding in Florence’s chest to the point of anxious pain, the portkey begins to glow blue. Tom slips his arm around Florence once more, and then they all gasp at the wrenching sensation in their navel, flying through nothingness, their legs crashing into one another, bodies whirling at a thousand revolutions a moment.

Minutes or centuries later, they slam onto the ground, all breath knocked from their lungs as the impact rattles their teeth together. Florence staggers into Philip beside her before Tom’s hand, which was glued to her side during the flight, tightens around her and pulls her to her feet.

“Nine oh five has arrived, Terrance,” a cheerful voice calls out as the five teenagers collect their breath. Florence peers over her shoulder to see a cheerful woman in a blue cotton dress waving them over. Over her heart is the golden seal of MACUSA, an eagle within a circle, and the letters SWRD for the Surveillance Wizarding Resources Department.

“Y’all are the first to arrive today, honey,” the woman informs Florence who has stepped forward out of Tom’s grasp to lead the group. “Terrence will check your paperwork at the booth. Your luggage arrived just before you from Hogwarts.”

Terrance is a dark skinned man with black hair and a ready smile. He too is dressed in the SWRD uniform, and he greats them with an ease that can only result from a long stay at his position.

“I’ll just need to see passports and wands please,” he explains, holding out his hand. Florence passes him her papers, and he weighs her wand upon a brass scale, making notes on a card that he files in a cabinet below his desk. The process is repeated for each of her companions, Tom going last. He is hesitant to hand over his wand, Florence watching as his eyes narrow slightly at the callous manner in which Terrence slaps the piece of wood onto the scale, but at last they are through and free to collect their trunks from the waiting room. Terrance and the woman wish them well just as another group materializes on the same spot they had.

“Our townhome is right across the street, and then the portkey should be leaving soon after to take us to Spectre.”

She is trying to speak calmly, but having arrived on Georgian soil, the familiar smells of Spanish moss wafting through open windows, Florence can feel herself wavering. The air is cool, but instantly warmer than the frigid temperatures of December in Great Britain. Beside her Lizzie is giving a knowing look.

“Anyone meeting us in Spectre?”

“I’m sure someone is, but mom didn’t say who,” Florence whispers as she reaches for her trunk.

“Hope it’s your brother.”

“Well, you’re engaged. So,” Florence says pointedly, smirking back at Lizzie who frowns.

The customs station is a small brick building sandwiched between two larger office buildings of the same style. The sidewalks are full of NoMaj’s peering into shop windows and walking arm in arm under the oak-lined street, displays of green and red holiday clothing or Christmas confectionaries drawing _oohs_ and _ahs_ from young children. On the other side of the buildings from which they have exited, Florence can hear the bellowing horn of a river barge as it comes into dock. Along light posts and poster boards are adverts for war bonds and military conscription, Uncle Sam resolutely still as was the NoMaj custom.

“This way,” Florence says after catching her breath, rolling her trunk across the cobblestone street, through the crowd, and around a corner where a wide park with a splashing green fountain appears. “This one’s ours.”

Florence hasn’t spent an inordinate amount of time in their Savannah home. Her Grandfather had purchased it some years back when he was still running the Allman shipping empire. It served the purpose of a place to stay when business was at its peak with a small kitchen, a sitting room, and enough bedrooms for her father and a few guests. From the exterior it was tan plaster with white molding and black wrought iron wrapping around the first and second floor porches. Beside Florence, Lizzie tittered.

“Very French, isn’t it?”

“Don’t start with that,” Florence teases. “You haven’t seen our hunting lodge. It’d put your Tudor dreams to shame.”

“We’ve only got four minutes,” Philip says, peering down at his watch which he has just set back the necessary five hours.

“Christ,” Florence groans, rushing up the stairs and pulling out her wand to unlock the door. Flinging it open, she beckons them inside, pointing into the parlor where yet another inane silver snuff box is waiting for their disposal. Tom enters the room last, still decidedly silent, his face so blank she wonders if he is thinking at all or just moving mechanically through the process. As far as she knows he has never left England, only traveling between the orphanage and Hogwarts, and recently the occasional home of some rich friend he had acquired. Would all of her family’s splendor push him away? Would he resent her for it?

Biting her lip, Florence forces these thoughts to the back of her mind. In only a moment she will be _home._ Home – her birthplace and birthright and the earth would sing to her and Owen and Albion and even her parents would be there to welcome her. The thought was enough to bring tears back to her eyes.

“Quickly everyone, and mind your trunks.” Florence bosses them into a circle, and again there is a flash of blue and they are spinning through the air into nothingness.

There is no Ministry garbed witch or wizard to welcome them when they land in the designated portkey arrival site in Spectre, but there is a sight more welcome than any Florence has seen before. She abandons her trunk as she runs across the sidewalk and into the open arms of Albion, leaving her friends to take in the humble brick and clapboard buildings on either side of the cobblestone street.

“Alb!” She hollers, wrapping her arms around his neck and letting him spin her on the spot. “My _god_ it’s good to be home.”

Albion is dressed in a pair of light- wash denim pants that are slug low across his hips with a brown belt, a pair of ostrich leather boots on his feet, a thick canvas button down open at the neck and fluttering in the breeze. He was beaming at her, his hair decidedly messy as he peered at the gathering of people slowly making their way towards Florence and her brother. She thought she might burst as she glanced between her two colliding worlds, the easy handshake between Philip and Albion, the kiss he gave Lizzie’s hand.

“I was _hoping_ Florence would invite you,” he cooed at Elizabeth in a voice so rumbling it made even austere Lizzie blush. Florence slapped his arm.

“Will you get my trunk so that we can go? I want to see Owen.”

“What? I wasn’t enough of a greeting party?” He pouts.

“I just saw you, Alb.”

“That was over a month ago!”

Philip laughs as he and Tom load the trunks onto the back of the carriage. Albion turns his attention to Radella.

“And who is this lovely girl, Florie? I don’t believe I met you when I visited,” he rumbles, taking Radella’s hand and kissing the back of it. Radella looks faint.

“I’m Radella Gilford,” the Hufflepuff murmurs, her eyes wide as saucers. Albion smirks as he bends over her hand, unable to not relish in the effect he has on women.

“Radella is in Transfiguration with me, Alb, so be nice to her or she’ll turn you into a dustpan.”

“Duly noted,” he says in a slightly less seductive voice. “Come on, everyone in, mom is going to go nuts when she sees all of you. She’s been talking about this visit for weeks.”

The carriage roof has been pulled back to enjoy the winter breeze, two large quarter horses pawing the ground as Albion climbs into the drivers seat. He grins down at Lizzie and offers her his hand.

“Sit next to me,” he purrs, and Lizzie reddens further, but tosses her long sheet of blonde hair over her shoulder and manages to give him her most scathing frown.

“I’m set to be a betrothed woman,” Florence hears her tell Albion as she seats herself on the bench next to him.

“Ah well, what’s the use in a pretty face if you don’t flirt with it.” He shrugs and cracks the whip in the air above the two horses backs. “Everyone in?”

“Sit next to me?” Florence whispers as she looks up at Tom’s face. He is still resolutely blank, his eyes scanning the main street of Spectre which is still distinctly empty at this early hour. It is a quaint road with trees lining the street and storefronts with magical displays. In the center of town is a roundabout with a statue of a man seated upon the back of a unicorn, the creature tossing it’s bronze head and pawing the base of its structure. Everything is angular and precise, less cozy than the feel of a small English village, and yet there is no pretense too it. As if Spectre was a tall, round man proudly saying “here I am.” Florence wants to take Tom’s hand, but he is so reticent she considers her touch may shock him.

“Yes,” Tom eventually answers, and they seat themselves across from Philip and Radella who are both pointing to a storefront with two MACUSA flags flapping in the breeze. Florence crosses her legs under her dress so that her thigh presses against Tom’s leg. He turns to look at her, and for the briefest moment she sees the tension around his eyes drain, and Florence feels that she can breathe again. Her chest tightens almost at once, however, as the carriage stutters into motion and Florence recalls that her mom’s hawk-like gaze waits for them at the end of the ride. _Can Tom sense my nerves? Is he perhaps nervous too?_

“Mom’s invited the Blount’s over for dinner tomorrow, and Margaret and the Calhoun’s. Maybe the Kennedy’s, but I’m not sure,” Albion relays over his shoulder as they leave Spectre behind. “I hope everyone’s hungry,” Albion adds. “I think she’s planning on wining and dining y’all to death.”

“Is that the entire town?” Tom asks, his voice croaking slightly after lack of use.

“Yes, I told you it was small,” Florence says, recalling how she’d screamed at him in the hall the morning after Slughorn’s party. Tom’s lip quirks at this as if he too was remembering their argument, and Florence throws caution to the wind, leaning her head on Tom’s shoulder. _At least Albion is facing the other way._

“It’s so cute, Florence,” Radella gushes, leaning over the side of the carriage to peer across the field which is full of cattle and odd shrubs. “Are these muggle farms?”

“This one is,” Florence nods to the field she is observing, but after the wood up here is the Sadler’s. They grow Azalea and milkweed for potions. Mr. Sadler and my dad are good friends.”

“How do they not spot Spectre? They’re practically right next to the town?” Philip asks.

“I’d assume magical enchantments,” Tom says lazily, his hand coming to rest on Florence’s thigh. Tom is warm as ever, his touch managing to still the thundering in her chest. “Similar to Hogwarts or the like.”

“The NoMaj’s think Spectre is private property. They’re very particular about property around here – wouldn’t dream of investigating cause they’d fear getting shot,” Albion explains as the road turns from cobbled to dirt beneath the carriage wheels, the pounding of the horses hooves more muffled.

“You really are in the middle of nowhere, Florence,” Lizzie calls out, glancing around her at the trunks of ancient oaks and maples and pines.

“Yes, Lizzie honey,” Florence agrees, rolling her eyes. “You have to be spread out if you’re going to own a lot of land.”

They roll on in silence after that, Florence attempting to swallow the emotion that was pooling in her throat. How she’d _missed_ the familiar scent of pine, the rolling fields of neighboring farms even yellowed and dry during the Winter as they were. They passed the gate to the Sadler’s, then took a right out of the woods and across other fields that were empty – recently plowed – or perhaps full of oats swaying in a light breeze like ripples across a pond. In one field she recalled Albion participating in a NoMaj foxhunt, in the next copse, Owen had taken her searching for magical fungi. Hogwarts was beautiful and deep in magic, but as they rolled down the lane, there was _nothing_ to compare to the comfort of Georgia, to the hills and trees that were as familiar to her as her own name.

“We’re nearly there,” Albion says at last after nearly twenty minutes of riding. Florence sits up sharply, her head leaving Tom’s shoulder as she leans out the side of the carriage. She misses the wrinkle on his face as she pulls away from him, as if he is insulted that there is something more compelling to Florence than himself, but there is no thought for anything but her home – her family. Sure enough, before their carriage the road dead ends into a large white gate with a fence that stretches on to the right or left as far as the eye can see. The main drive is covered by one hundred oaks on either side of the gravel stretch, each colossal and bare, like brown skeletons reaching for the sky. In the Summer when the trees are green, it is the most beautiful drive in town.

And there, so distant it is only a speck, is the white façade of her house, the Dorian columns which wrap around its structure calling her home. Florence’s heart feels like it might beat out of her chest because she can smell it – the clinical tang of Dittany, the rich scent of the earth, _her_ earth. She can hear the voices of the land, and her magic within her shivers because it is once more at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to America! I'd love to know your thoughts, very grateful for each of you.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

“There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.”  
― Nelson Mandela

As they pass through the gates, which swing open of their own accord, Florence felt the ripple of magic that washed over her as if she was being thrust into and out of a cool jet of air, emerging clean and born anew. The property enchantments were thick and durable from years of reaffirmation, designed to turn away the prying eyes of NoMaj neighbors who wanted a glimpse of the famed Allman estate, but more importantly, to lock in the magic the Allmans had sewn into their land.

At once the trees, which had appeared dormant and listless in their wintery abodes bloomed green, the light that filtered down through their leafy recesses golden and dewy. The fields beyond the drive were full of row upon row of Dittany trees, silvery leaves round and glistening in the early morning sunlight. Whippoorwills whistled in unknown recesses, and Florence thought she spotted a messenger eagle sweeping low across the fields, wings dancing upon the air. Florence felt like she might cry as her home came into view, the bubbling emotion in her throat and behind her eyes almost unbearable. The air still held the chill of December, but there was no denying the warm embrace of magic that was entirely her own, unique to her family and to this land and the songs that now threatened to rip from her lungs.

“ _Merlin’s beard_ ,” Florence heard Philip whisper under his breath, most likely in reference to them having resurfaced into the heart of Summer despite the cold. It was like they had just rolled into a giant greenhouse, the world at once lush and full despite being in the middle of the dead season.

“Mom’s waiting for us,” Albion calls, and Florence rips her eyes away from the fields she longs to run through to seek out the house. Sure enough, the two imposing black front doors have been thrown open to reveal the iron speck that is Eudora Allman. Even at this distance, jostling along in the carriage, Eudora Allman is unyielding.

Florence’s mother has never been warm. The question of _why_ was not something Florence put a lot of thought into, only that even in her earliest memories Mrs. Allman had a detachment from her children, visible in the clinical manner by which she held her kids, the curt voice she used when guests were not present. The eldest daughter of the prominent Livingston family, Eudora’s own debut had been widely lauded in the New York wizarding community with families discussing how best to present their sons, who Eudora would set her sights upon. There were discussions that she would accept the hand of a young French Noble who had traveled across the Atlantic just to see her presented, or the son of the current President of MACUSA.

Yet none of this had come to pass. Just off his mastery at Hogwarts, Clifford Allman had arrived in New York as the newly established head of the Allman business empire, young and handsome and with a steely quiet about him that dashed the hopes of every other vying hopeful. Eudora had apparently gone to her father to ask him to speak to Clifford Allman, to see if he would consider marrying her. The rest was history.

Behind Eudora another figure appears, thin and willowy with a crop of dark hair and square rimmed glasses. If Florence and Albion were caramel and honey, Owen is ink and olive, the spitting image of their mother who is narrow and composed.

“Owen!” Florence shouts, throwing her arm into the air frantically. She knows it will embarrass her mom, but she cannot bring herself to care. _Gods_ she’d missed him. His silent presence, his gentle smiles, that she was the only person capable of making him laugh. Florence knew without a doubt that the only reason he had come to the front porch was because _she_ was returning. Owen was not known for his hospitality, a fact which infuriated their mom.

“I thought you said your father had already shipped his Dittany crop?” Lizzie called coolly from the front of the carriage. Florence turns to find Lizzie’s summer eyes wide as she peers down at her.

“He sent _one_ crop of Dittany,” Florence corrects. “The fields are staggered.”

She doesn’t want to go into the intricacies of crop rotation and irrigation and the trouble her father had gone to in order to develop a system which could supply Dittany year round. It was enough to be back amongst the place where she belonged, and to have brought those people dearest to her along.

The carriage rolls to a stop before the white façade of the house, her mother and Owen waiting patiently at the top of the stairs between two columns as thick as giant’s legs. The house is a massive white square with a first and second floor balcony wrapping around the entire structure. Black, wrought iron railings stretch between the columns with mental flowers that actually bloom and wave in the wind, occasionally creaking and groaning as magic warps the metal. Azaleas line the home while two massive white oaks stand like sentinels at either end of the porch.

Neither Eudora nor Owen speak as they disembark, Florence unable to rip her eyes away from her brother’s thin lipped smile even to look at Tom as he takes her hand and helps her down from the carriage. His hand is tight around her own, and then she has let go, moving past the gathering and up the stairs, enveloping Owen’s narrow frame in her arms. There is a shadow that passes over Tom’s face she does not see as she leaves him for her family.

“Owen,” she repeats again, this time a whisper, giving him a particularly violent squeeze that she knows he hates because it cracks his back.

“Glad you’re home, Florence.” His voice is slightly choked, and it’s tone says more than words ever could.

She releases him to move onto her mom, meeting the even gaze of Eudora Allman with a resigned feeling of insufficiency. Florence swallows a frown and gives her mom a quick hug before stepping back.

“Welcome home, Florence,” she says briskly, her eyes raking over Florence’s dress with thin lipped disapproval. “I trust you were able to get here easily?”

“Yeah, customs wasn’t a problem.”

“Good,” she confirms, turning to look down the stairs at Lizzie, Philip, Radella, and Tom who are all staring up at the home with varying levels of awe. Yet Florence’s eyes seek Tom’s expression, his blank mask slipping into place that means he is hiding some great emotion behind his porcelain facade. Not for the first time since they had departed that morning did Florence wish they were alone, so that she could point to the oak trees and tell him that she and Adsila had raised them. To take his hand and walk Tom along the first level porch and tell him where the light was best for reading in the morning and how the window to her bedroom could be seen from almost any point on the property in which the house was visible.

Tom bears his mask, but Florence can see the hunger in his eyes, the parting of pale lips for his tongue to dart out and wet. His gaze is commanding, taking in every plane of her home as she knew it would. Her property practically vibrates with the energy of land magic, and she knows Tom too well to think that he cannot feel it. _This is what I am, where I come from_ she wants to say aloud because she wants to share all of this with him down to the very floorboards upon which she stands, the chirping of cicadas at night, but Florence remains silent. He is staying with her for the duration of the Holiday – there will be time.

Florence’s mother has moved down the stairs to stand on the bottom step, offering a wide smile to her gathered friends. It was hard not to be intimidated by Eudora Allman, Florence considers when she notices Lizzie tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and Philip adjusting his collar under his sports coat.

“We are _so_ glad that each of you could join us for the holidays,” Mrs. Allman began, her austere face splitting into a smile not befitting of her serious nature. “Florence has told us so much about each of you, and we are all looking forward to getting to know you.”

“Thank you for having us, Mrs. Allman,” Lizzie says with a thin lipped smile and a slight curtsy. Florence’s mother casts the blonde girl an approving look.

“You must be Lizzie, dear. Such a pleasure. And the rest of you?”

“Radella Gilford,” the raven haired girl croaks with less grace than Lizzie, but her curtsy is flowing and smooth and Florence’s mother seems to attribute the Hufflepuff’s nerves to travel weariness. Philip introduces himself with his typical friendliness that threatens to melt even Eudora’s frosty exterior, but then he has stepped back and it is Tom’s turn.

Not for the first time is Florence grateful that Tom is exceptionally handsome, fearful that had he not been, his blank look might have appeared offensive to Florence’s mother who is accustomed to being praised and pampered. Florence’s chest seems to constrict as if a python is slowly killing her, brain gasping for oxygen as she watches Tom reach for her mother’s hand and press her knuckles to his lips. When he steps back, Tom gives Eudora a smile that would be radiant if Florence did not know what he looked like when he _truly_ smiled. In comparison, the grin Tom gives her mother seems almost sleazy, half-assed. If Mrs. Allman notices, however, her face does not show it.

“Mrs. Allman, an honor,” Tom purrs in a voice so deep and rumbling that Florence – who is watching her mother like a hawk for any flickering of emotion – feels a swing of jealousy run through her. Irrationally, Florence feels the urge to snap her fingers and stomp her foot and call Tom’s name until his eyes return to hers. Instead she remains still, allowing Tom to woo her mother because it is _imperative_ he do so. The pounding in her heart may suffocate Florence.

“Now, we have drinks just inside for all of you, I’m sure y’all are all exhausted from your travels, and our house elves will gather your things.”

Eudora sweeps into action, her hosting prowess unmatched as she snaps her fingers and the family troop of house elves marches through the front door to begin collecting their things. Florence smiles and waves at each of them individually as they clap their hands at the sight of her.

“Welcome home, Mistress Florence!” Rosanne chirps before skipping down the steps, her large brown eyes watering at the sight of her ward returned safely from across the sea. Tom, Florence notes, is staring at the elves like they are Hydras, not friendly household creatures. Again Florence wishes they were alone so that she could force him to meet her gaze and peer behind the impenetrable mask which has slipped onto his face, but for now she must wait, tight lipped and impatient.

Her thoughts of Tom disappear in the wind as they walk up the stairs and into the home, Florence wrapping herself around Owen’s arm as they move through a second set of magical wards that protect the home. These shields are like a warm shower of evening rain, and Florence feels a shiver of pleasure as her home welcomes her once more to birthright.

It is just as she remembered it, the towering ceilings, cream colored walls with pastoral paintings the size of her four-poster bed at Hogwarts framing either side of the main entrance. Stallions can be seen running towards the edge of their frames to observe the newcomers – _to great me once more_ Florence thinks as she catches the flashing eye of a rearing black mustang. They traipse across dark, oak floors and plush oriental rugs down the hall to the center of the home, a sunken, octagonal space with granite floors and a magnificent dittany tree spearing up into the air nearly two stories high. Light from the glass rotunda gives a pleasant, silvery glow to the space as it filters through the sage leaves, the medicinal scent of the ancient tree like a handshake from an old companion. There are four sets of steps – one from each cardinal direction – which provide access to the small garden, identical hallways springing out from behind the other three which they have not explored.

“This is the center of the home,” Eudora explains, leading them down one of the steps and under the tree. “This tree was planted by the first Allman who arrived in Georgia nearly two hundred years ago.”

Florence’s mother does not add that it has been kept alive by land magic for the past one-hundred by generations of Allman descendants, extending the life of the tree far beyond that of its natural span. The omission feels like a slap to Florence, a dampener upon a victorious arrival home. Beside Florence, Owen places his hand over hers as if he can sense her anger, and at once she is soothed.

“Should at any point you be unable to find your rooms, just look for this tree and the winter greenhouse to guide you back to the center of the home. All of the stairs stretch from this space,” she said, nodding towards the two sets of mahogany stairs that curved around the edge of the room, “and you should be able to find your quarters from here.”

“Now Florence,” her mother paused, glancing at her daughter once more. “I’ve had several rooms prepared but I’ll leave their placement up to you. Waylon! June!”

At once there is a _crack_ at their feet, and two house elves in the matching Allman tea-towels appear, each beaming at Florence who feels a rush of affection for the tiny creatures that raised her.

“Mistress Florence!” Waylon cheers, and June throws herself around Florence’s leg. She stoops to pat both of them on their heads before squatting before them.

“Which rooms have been prepared, Waylon?” She asks of the aging male house elf who’s eyes are slightly clouded from cataracts. Behind her she can hear her mother asking about their trip and summoning a third house elf – Willie – to bring glasses of champagne.

“Mistress Eudora has had Waylon and the other elves prepare the Hydrangea, Camilla, Loblolly, and Poplar rooms, ma’am.”

“Excellent, Waylon. I’d like Lizzie – the blonde girl – in Camilla, Philip the boy beside her in Loblolly, Radella the brunette girl in Hydrangea, and if it’s possible, could you put the last boy Tom in the Magnolia room?” Florence drops her voice lower, conscious that Tom is standing only a few feet away, most likely listening. She has not forgotten his ability to know more about her than what she has told him. “I know it’s not prepared, but I just really think he’d appreciate the view,” Florence says vaguely. Waylon gives her a small bow.

“Of course, Mistress Florence,” and then he is gone and Florence gets to her feet once more, taking the flute that Owen offers her.

“We’ll have dinner at seven,” her mother is explaining, champagne held delicately in her grasp as she addressed her friends. Florence feels some of her anxiety fading under the presence of the family tree, Owen beside her. One milestone was over – they had met her mother – and Florence refused to ruin the rest of her day pining for Eudora to reveal first impressions. It was enough to be back on sure ground – _her_ ground – and to admire the figure Tom Riddle cut in his navy sports coat before the most sacred space in her family home. “And I’m sure y’all will want a moment to freshen up or nap before then. Drinks will be served at six, please feel free to explore the home or the property.”

Florence listens as her friends thank her mother before yet another loud _crack_ echoes through the heart of the home and four house elves have appeared.

“June, Rosanne, Kristofferson, and Cash will be able to lead you to your rooms. Don’t hesitate to call for them if you need anything,” Eudora instructs, and then one by one the elves approach her friends, tugging on trouser legs and skirts and leading them up the stairs and down various hallways. Tom’s eyes stray to Florence’s just for a moment before he turns, dark and smoke-like, a welcome sight amidst the turmoil of travel, and then he too is gone and Florence is left alone with her mother and brother.

“They seem lovely, Florence,” Eudora comments after a small sip of her drink. “That Lizzie girl has wonderful manners.”

“I knew you would like her,” Florence claims mildly. She wants to ask what her mother knows about Lizzie’s father and about the girl’s bank account, but she refrains.

“Owen, how have you been?”

“Oh, your brother has been wasting away in his room per usual,” Eudora interrupts, casting her son a scathing look.

“It’s a shame you think so, Mom,” Owen says in a bored voice. He’d long ago learned that passivity was the best way to deal with their mother’s viperlike attacks. It was a lesson Florence herself had not learned, choosing to meet fire with fire. “Albion has been very appreciative of my research.”

“That I have,” Albion says loudly, appearing from down the hallway, his denim and boots almost uncouth in the formal hallway. Something inside Florence sparks with warmth. Albion takes the final flute of champagne and downs it in one heaving gulp before replacing the glass on the tray.

“Carlton wants to talk to you about the menu for tonight, mom,” Albion adds, stretching his arms over his head.

“Heavens, what could he possibly want to ask now,” Eudora mutters, setting off up the stairs and down one of the adjacent hallways, talking under her breath the entire time about garden salads.

“Carlton doesn’t want to speak to mom,” Albion clarifies with a wicked smile the moment the woman’s voiced has faded into silence. “But you’ve been in her presence for two seconds, Florie, and you look like you could punch her.”

Florence throws her head back and laughs.

“My hero,” she says, wiping away stray tears. “Let’s get out of here before she comes back.”

The three Allman siblings immediately rush from the heart of the home and down one of the hallways, throwing open the door to the side porch. There are several chairs and a small side table which soon find themselves occupied by Owen and Florence while Albion leans against the railing. The sun is nearing its midday peak, rays falling easily upon the fields beside the house still bearing saplings, the barn visible on the other side of the field. Even though she knows she should go check in on her friends, the urge to sit and relax with her brothers is too prevalent, and she relaxes into her rocking chair.

“I see you brought the stalker,” Albion says with a wide smirk. Florence feels her chest tighten, hands gripping arms of her chair tighter than necessary. This was _not_ what she wanted Owen to hear the first time Tom was discussed.

“Don’t call him that, Alb.”

“That tall, dark haired boy has it bad for, Florie,” Albion continues, pointedly ignoring his sister in favor of turning to face Owen. The middle Allman sibling, for his part, has removed his glasses and is polishing them on his shirt.

“What’s he like, Florence?” It is the level-headed approach that only Owen can bring between the two hurricanes that are Florence and Albion.

“Really smart. He’s Head Boy,” Florence immediately rushes to say. It’s hard, she realizes, describing Tom to people who have not seen him in action. Were Albion not present, she might dive into his magical abilities in greater detail for the benefit of her academically minded brother who could appreciate it, but nevertheless, there would never be words for the looks Tom gave her, the power he instilled in her, how he could be both master and supplicant at her altar at the same time. Instead, Florence just shrugs. “I’m sure he’d like to hear about your research, Owen.”

“I would love to speak with him about it. Perhaps a second eye could help me narrow down some of the inconsistencies I am coming across.”

“Are you two dating?” Albion asks, his eyes which are the same color and shape of Florence’s own narrowing as he observes his sister. Florence manages to give off a convincing eye roll in order to hid the blush that surfaces on her cheeks.

“I’m debuting in the Spring Albion, what do you think?”

“That’s not an answer,” Owen points out, but his voice is gentle, lacking the accusatory tone of Albion.

“No, we’re not dating,” Florence tells them, glancing from brother to brother. It is only true because Tom has not attempted to put a label on it, but there can be no denying what his actions meant. Florence and Tom had spent every available moment over the past month together – he had _kissed_ her and the world had exploded in a multitude of sparks when it happened. She had invited him to meet her parents. To say that they were not heavily involved was as dishonest as was possible.

“Do you think Philip would like to come hunting with me?” Albion asks after a moment. “The Calhoun’s invited me to go tomorrow morning.”

“I think you could ask,” Florence says, unable to imagine that there is anything – perhaps with the exception of Pyrrhus Avery – that Philip wouldn’t like.

“Would Tom?”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Florence assures him. She cannot image the orphan boy who sneered at most of the trappings of high society would enjoy a day in the field with rifles and bourbon. She would show him the library, perhaps take him on a walk of the property.

“Dad should be home in a few days,” Owen comments. “It will be nice to have him home again.”

“How was it having him back for harvest?” Florence asks, attempting to keep the bitterness from her voice that her father had been able to return and she had not.

“It was nice, but we missed you,” Albion confirms, his masculine face softening slightly in an uncommon display of courtesy. “I’m sure dad will want to walk you through the fields and catch you up to speed when he gets back.”

“Can’t come soon enough,” Florence muses, letting her eyes wander the fields before her, the rich aroma of mulch and pollen peppering the air.

.

.

.

Dinner passes uneventfully as they seat themselves in the informal dining room. The chair at the head of the table where her father sits remains conspicuously empty, an ache the size of Clifford Allman festering in Florence’s chest. Albion entertains with stories from Ilvermorny, answering each of Lizzie’s questions about the houses and classes while Philip listens raptly as Owen explains the finer points of Quadpot – the American sport of choice.

“So you were in Wampus?” Lizzie clarifies, her blue eyes dancing from several glasses of pinot noir and the undivided attention of the handsome Albion Allman across from her. “What was Owen in?”

“Horned Serpent of course – it’s the house with all the brains,” Albion says, elbowing his brother who at the moment was deep in conversation with Radella about the difficulties he was facing in his research. Owen jumps slightly in surprise at the contact, his face flushing as his glasses slide down his nose.

“What house would I have been in?” Lizzie asks after finishing her bite of venison.

“Beauty like yours? And brains – probably Horned Serpent. Mom was in Horned Serpent, weren’t you?” Albion says, pulling Eudora into the conversation.

“Yes, although Wampus wanted me,” she says with a slight smile, as if somehow this is something to brag about. “Florence’s father was in Pukwudgie,” she adds, addressing the entire table which is now listening.

“What do you think Florence would have been in?” Radella asks of Owen who is still a bit red in the face, almost as if horrified that he was caught talking to a girl at a dinner party. Florence wishes she could take his hand to comfort him.

“Florence is a hard one,” Owen admits in his clinical manner, his dark eyes meeting Florence’s as if he is observing a new specimen for research, not his blood relation. Tom, who is seated on the other side of Philip, shifts slightly in his seat. Florence has had to force herself not to watch him eat or listen to his conversation with her mother throughout the meal – both extremely distracting for opposing reasons. “I think, forgive me, we could rule out Horned Serpent. Your pursuit of knowledge is extremely biased to those subjects which require actual casting.”

Florence feels herself flush as she recalls Tom’s declaration that she was limited in her views of magic. Down the table, he turns to look at her, his midnight gaze tracing the profile of her face with the hint of a smirk. If only she could hex him, but he’d conveniently failed to teach her that thus far. Still, there is a cool trickle of relief to have his eyes on her once more.

“That’s funny, Florence is in Ravenclaw at Hogwarts,” Philip points out.

“True,” Owen concedes, removing his glasses to polish them again in a practiced move that Florence suspects he long ago failed to notice he was doing. “But, you will forgive me, Ravenclaw is known for intelligence and a desire to learn, which while similar, is different from the scholarly, well-rounded values of Horned Serpent. One could have the pursuit of a singular knowledge and still be labeled a Ravenclaw.”

“Probably not Wampus either,” Albion adds. “She likes to talk a big game, but she’s not really a fighter.”

Eudora Allman raises her eyebrows as if she would like to disagree, but she remains silent. Tom again leans in further, as if the declaration of Florence’s theoretical Ilvermorny house is of the utmost importance to him. This is a common topic of conversation between her siblings, but with a fascinated crowd listening, Florence feels on display in a not entirely welcome manner.

“I think it’s possible that both Thunderbird and Pukwudgie would have put forth for Florence,” Owen concludes, replacing his glasses. “You have a robustness for life that I believe Thunderbird would appreciate, but you are naturally inclined towards healing magics and community like our father, which might lend towards Pukwudgie.” It is a subtle compliment – that on some level Florence is like Clifford Allman, the man who has been her hero since the youngest age. Florence feels a spreading warmth pass through her at Owen’s words, a stinging behind her eyes, and the ache in her chest for her dad’s presence seems to expand.

“Do houses run in families at Ilvermorny?” Tom asks, his rumbling voice cutting through Florence’s emotion which is so thick it seems to coat every inch of her skin. He has been relatively silent all day, perhaps still uncertain of his position within this home, accustomed as he is to his role as Head Boy or as a valued guest of pure-blood families. His voice, even more than his gaze, is calming.

“Depends on the family,” Albion says, spearing a piece of venison with an unnecessary level of aggression. “Mom’s family has been Horned Serpent since Ilvermorny was founded, but the Allmans tend to rotate between Wampus and Pukwudgie.”

The house elves arrive to clear their places a few minutes later. Dessert is a warm blackberry cobbler, and after a cup of decaf coffee, Florence is so exhausted that she feels her eyes drooping while still seated. Eudora excuses them to their beds, assuring them that they may sleep in as late as they want before retiring to their own chambers for the night.

Owen escorts Florence to her room – a delicate space that reminds her of floating upon the clouds because of the pale blue ceiling and thick white comforter which adorns her large four poster bed. She is so drowsy that she misses Tom’s eyes which follow her as she makes her way up the stairs, his hand pressed against the Dittany heart tree as if he is tracing braille upon its trunk. If she had seen him, his looming form one with the place that had been sacred to both her and her great-grandmother, Florence would have turned around on the stairs and thrown herself into his arms regardless of who was watching, but as it was, she did not see him and allowed herself to be taken to bed.

Owen is narrow but firm under Florence’s grip, and when they reach the third floor, he opens the door for his sister with a small smile.

“I may not be as gifted as you with Adsila’s magic, but even I can feel how happy the land is to have you home,” Owen whispers almost as if the walls are listening. The magic within the walls certainly is, Florence knows.

“I feel as if I can breathe again,” she admits.

“Your friend Radella seems very nice,” Owen says, and his voice has taken on a strange breathy quality. Florence feels herself awaking from exhaustion to look closer at him, but Owen has carefully controlled his features.

“She is. Maybe you could show her the library tomorrow while I take Lizzie riding.”

Owen nods his agreement and then he is gone, leaving Florence to traipse her way over to the window seat and peer out at the quarter moon which has painted the land silver. Off in the distance she can see the river, and rising from a copse of trees, a small silver dot takes off into the air that fills her with a small thrill.

 _Home_ Florence thinks with a small smile to herself. _It is the nicest word there is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments!!! Next chapter is from Tom's POV and it's a doozy... Love you all and continuously thankful!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was honestly too excited to share this chapter to wait until tomorrow to post, so here I am a day early!! It's honestly so long, so my apologies, but I just couldn't find a place to cut it off:) Hope that you all enjoy!
> 
> Also - over 100 Kudos? Are you kidding me? You guys are the BEST!!!

**Chapter 22**

“I keep thinking about a tale my nurse used to read to me about a bird whose wings are pinned to the ground. In the end, when he finally frees himself, he flies so high he becomes a star. My nurse said the story was about how we all have something that keeps us down.”  
― Shannon Hale, Princess Academy

Tom could not sleep. The land was vibrating with interwoven magic at such a velocity that Tom wondered if he would ever find rest as long as he remained upon the Allman property. It was wild and voracious, and yet as familiar to him as the back of his hand because it is _Florence’s_ magic and the magic of her great-grandmother, and the very wood of the house had shivered with the power.

Getting to his feet, Tom wordlessly disillusions himself and silences his footfalls, aware already that the oak floors of the estate creaked like a moored ship tossing in the wind. He had no desire to wake anyone in the Allman family, with the exception of Florence, but she had been resolutely unaware of him since her home had come into view and it had made Tom feel like he was stranded far beyond the shore in a foreign land without any lifeline. He hated her for it, even if he could reasonably understand that her actions were a result of returning to her place of comfort, much as his annual return to Hogwarts blinded Tom to all else around him.

But his annoyance with her had not prevented Tom from noticing the pleasure that swept through Florence’s features the moment they passed within the wards, nor the youthful glow she’d seemed to emit in the old, dusty home that reeked with ancient enchantments. She looked at her land with the same expression she’d given Tom when they’d danced at Samhain, or when he’d kissed her beside the lake, and it infuriated him that there was something, even something inanimate, that caused her heart to spill over in a similar manner to himself.

Moving through his doorway, Tom glanced up and down the hallway before setting out to explore the home. He traced his way around two corners until he again found himself in the octagonal space at the center of the home. The hallways, his house elf had informed him, moved. From the second floor balustrade, Tom found himself staring directly into the silvery, sage leaves of the ancient Dittany tree that seemed to be calling to him no matter where he went, its medicinal smell returning him to memories of Florence before the flames of Samhain. There was a stirring in his stomach he had to fight to quell at the thought.

Tom could also feel the tug in his navel that told him Florence was somewhere on the floor above him, her precise location somewhat hazy in the unfamiliar home. He’d placed a tracking charm on her nearly a month ago when it became apparent that she was no longer going to flee his presence – a hack to help him find her in the endless maze that is Hogwarts – but which would prove useful in this rabbit’s warren of a home as well. Tom wants to rush to her quarters, to rip apart every corner of her room so that he can see the girl she was before he met her, to have a moment alone with her which Tom has not had since they departed England, but instead he decides he will let her sleep. There will be time to ask her the one million questions that have buzzed through his brain since he felt the wards to her property wash over him, he’s always managed to get what he wants from her.

Feeling his curiosity spike again, Tom moves along the railing and down the stairs to the first floor where he assumes all of the most interesting spaces will be held. He’d long uncovered all of Hogwarts’ secrets, and he could feel the familiar thrill at having a new space to explore, ot peel apart.

The first door he tries is a loo, the second a grand ballroom with parquet floors and no less than six crystal chandeliers. Categorically uninterested in this space which is designed for entertaining, he moves down the hall to the next door to find a study with a map of the Atlantic ocean covering an entire wall, its surface silver in the moonlight.

Tom enters this room, approaching the mural to find upon further inspection that there are ships moving along dotted lines from Savannah to Lisbon and Dakar and Benin. There is a solid red line with nearly eight ships moving across it to Portsmouth – a large port city south of London along the Channel. The names of each of the ships can been seen in small, white scrawl above the painted green sails – _The Bear, Lady Eudora, Azalea._ Looking closer, Tom notices that one ship has a large black X through it, stranded in the middle of the Atlantic far from any dotted or solid line.

_So this is the Allman shipping empire_ Tom realizes, pressing his hand against the painting to feel the oils move beneath his fingers, waves that ripple under his skin. Tom had of course known that Florence was wealthy beyond imagination before arriving in America. The Malfoys had been unable to stop talking about her eventual arrival at Hogwarts over the summer while Tom had visited Abraxas, because wealth and affluence were the only things that held interest for that disgustingly blonde family. Yet Tom had never truly grasped the magnitude of Florence’s station until he had passed through not one, but two of her minor properties – both a hundred times nicer than the orphanage in which he’d been raised – only to arrive in a small kingdom of a plantation with wards that expanded for acres, altering the growing season itself. It was the kind of magic and splendor that he, the heir of Slytherin, should have been raised in. His jealousy was incomparable, and it only served to make him feel more desperate for Florence, to bridge some invisible gap he imagined.

Being within the walls of Florence’s home, he had also been forced to come to terms with other ideas. At Hogwarts, Tom did not have to fight for Florence’s attention – it was his, her gaze _belonged_ to him, her thoughts held space only for Tom. And yet here, amongst her people and her magic, Tom could see the way her thoughts strayed from him, wandering down trails he couldn’t follow like a lost dog. It made Tom feel isolated in a way he never had, that unnamed ache in his chest threatening to swallow him in moments where he would stare and stare at Florence’s face only to be denied her attention because she was too caught up in the words of her family.

Suddenly restless at these thoughts, Tom ignores the mahogany desk and bookcases behind him in favor of exploring more of the house, the opportunity to peel away more of Florence’s secrets, closing the door behind him as he enters another hallway. Halfway down is a set of white double doors that Tom does not hesitate to open.

Stepping into the moonlit room, Tom feels a grin spread across his face as his eyes adjust to the darkness. Even in America, Tom knows the familiar scent of parchment and ink. With relish, he shuts the door behind him and moves into the Library. Who needed sleep when there was a new trove of magic to explore?

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In the end, Tom had slept, lulled to sleep upon a wide chaise lounge by the caresses of native magic which hummed even through the library, the moonlight dragging his eyes closed as he flipped the pages of an ancient manuscript on seafaring enchantments. He’d dreamed of Florence, of the warmth of her skin, the scent of coffee parading through his mind, but his waking, if possible, had been even more pleasant than those fantasies.

There is a hand running down his chest, plucking at the buttons of his shirt as if toying with the idea of undoing them, it’s counterpart stroking his hairline, the bridge of his nose, his lips. It was altogether the most gentle touch he had ever been subject too, and still deep within the recesses of sleep, Tom leaned into the hands which explored his form, skin delicate as feathers. From above him is a small chuckle as he rolled onto his back, his shoulder pressing against a warm body.

“I thought I might find you here,” Florence’s voice whispers, and suddenly he could feel tendrils of her hair brushing across his skin – his neck and his shoulders and his forehead. Sleep seemed to be falling away from him rapidly now as electricity took its place, charges running along his nervous system, heat pooling between his legs. Tom opened his eyes only to find Florence’s face breaths above his, her rosy lips pulled back into a half smile.

“Good morning, Tom,” she says, and then she forces his eyes closed once more because she is kissing him.

Tom is fully awake now, his hands moving to cup her cheek and snake around her waist. Without ceremony he pulls Florence against him so that her body, which is warm and soft and better than any blanket, covers his, her hands can have better access to his chest where she has succeeded in undoing half of his buttons.

Kissing Florence, Tom has decided, gives him the same thrill that alcohol must give to lesser minds. It is the only thing that can explain the levity in his brain, the nonsensical moan that slips from his lips that Florence devours with her own as if it could nourish her soul. Perhaps it could. Tom thinks the way they move in tandem would be enough to live off of if only she would let him have her for the rest of his eternal life. 

“Good morning,” he repeats when at last they have pulled away. Florence blushes in that way that makes Tom feel triumphant, and he presses his lips in rapid succession to the corner of her mouth, between her brows, the crease in her jaw, determined to take advantage of his ability to _touch_ her. Florence’s fingers are tracing his sternum, a part of his body that has never been touched by any other, and it makes the hardness between his legs grow.

“Why are you sleeping here?” She asks, her smile broadening as his hands grow bolder, sliding lower and lower until his palm has come to rest tentatively on her backside. The fabric under his hands is stiff and unrecognizable, but he cannot peel his eyes away from hers long enough to see what she is wearing. Tom can feel the ripples of pleasure that rock through her, see the iron in her face as she tries not to reveal how much his touch delights her. Florence had once told him power came in many forms. _This is surely one of them_ he thinks as Florence presses her lips to his chest, her skin like burning rose petals against his own. He doesn’t want her to stop, he wants to peel away the clothing she is wearing and lock the door and have her in every way she will let him. The possibilities make him feel slightly dizzy.

They are thoughts new and alarming to Tom, but pressed against her as he is, he cannot stop them as they run through his mind.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says at last in answer to her question. _The magic of this place is overwhelming and you were distant and my mind could not be silenced._

“And so you found our library. How predictable,” she teases, her lips moving from his chest to his neck, her teeth nipping at his shoulder as she moves. The hand on her bottom tightens as Tom feels another surge of pleasure run through him, Florence’s mouth seeming to play his skin like a harp.

“I was going to recommend you spend your time here this afternoon while Lizzie and I go riding, but I should have known you would already have found it.”

“You have quite the collection,” Tom says, sitting up slightly so that he can glance out the window. It is still early in the morning, the light a shade of palest blue as the sun’s rays reflect off the cloudless sky. “You are happy to be home,” he adds, his other hand tracing the pink of her cheekbones. It is not a question – he can see the joy which makes him want to carve his name into her skin written into every inch of her being.

“Of course I am,” Florence says, pressing her lips to his for a fleeting moment before rolling off of him and getting to her feet. His body protests the loss of her warmth, as do his hands which suddenly feel empty as they grasp at nothingness. At last he can see her clothes, a pair of light wash denims that trace the curve of her hips and dip at the narrowest point of her waist. She has a faded t-shirt on and square toed leather boots that seem to hug Florence’s calves like molten chocolate.

Tom feels his mouth go dry, his chest constrict to the point of pain. He’s never seen so _much_ of her, the modest Hogwarts uniform hiding her perfectly bronzed skin from his view. These decidedly muggle clothes, however, are the most tantalizing thing he has ever seen, and upon Florence… He reaches out and grabs her hips, his thumbs pressing against her hipbones if only to stop the shaking in his hands as desire nearly blinds him.

“What on earth are you wearing?” He cannot stop himself from asking because he really is wondering if he’s intoxicated, if she is wearing some type of love potion fragrance that has addled his senses.

“They’re jeans, Tom,” she giggles, and the sound is like falling water and her smile is the sun and _Merlin_ help him he wants to rip every inch of fabric from her body and to press her against the table or the book shelf or even the floor, whatever surface she chooses. Tom isn’t feeling picky. “I like your hair in the morning,” she adds, running a finger through the stray curl which has fallen across his forehead. Tom has to physically clench his jaw to stop himself from saying that if she spent the night with him, she could see him like this every morning. Looking up at her from his seated position, Tom’s flaming pride is soothed slightly by the unnatural redness of Florence’s cheeks, the parting of her lips as if she is trying to breathe him in. At least he was not the only one affected by their closeness.

“Waylon is preparing breakfast and coffee on the back porch if you’re hungry. I know Philip and Lizzie won’t be awake for a few more hours, Radella too I suspect, but Owen is already up.”

Tom is hungry, not necessarily for food, but he nods and gets to his feet, feeling somewhat mollified when he is once more the one looking down upon her face. Florence’s eyes are blown wide as she stares at him, and with a smirk he presses his lips to hers once more, this time his mouth more insistent, claiming her as he forces her backwards. Dressed only in his boxers and sleeping shirt from the night before, Tom is almost certain that Florence can feel his arousal which is pressing firmly against her hip, and yet he cannot stop to be embarrassed because Florence has just raked her nails along his shoulder, her teeth sinking into his bottom lip in a flash of pain that makes Tom want to meld his body with hers. She tasks like honey and feels like magic and it takes all of his considerable self-control not to rip her shirt from her frame and pin her against the bookshelf behind them.

“I’ll meet you outside,” he pants after a moment, running his fingers down the exposed skin of her arm before disillusioning himself and departing the library, preventing him from making any more of a fool of himself. _It’s the magic of this home_ he reassures his racing mind as he climbs the stairs beside the family Dittany tree. _It makes you feel unhinged_. But he cannot completely silence the urge to turn around and run back to Florence, to make her scream his name in a way he suspects she might if given the chance, brash and outspoken as she is.

It is fifteen minutes later that Tom finds his way onto the back porch to find Florence and Owen seated in amicable silence as they enjoy steaming mugs of coffee and help themselves to platters of fruit and eggs. Tom seats himself beside Florence where he can look out over the Dittany fields while also pressing his hand to her thigh.

“Good morning, Tom,” Owen addresses, his voice a shade more conversational than the night prior. Tom wonders absent mindedly as his thumb strokes Florence’s leg if the middle Allman child finds it easier to speak when his socialite mother is not present.

“Owen.” Tom inclines his head to the boy. Florence and Albion, Tom must assume, take after their father in looks, because Owen’s lanky, dark-haired frame and stubbled chin show all the austerity of Eudora Allman who was willowy in her own right and who bore no resemblance to the young woman seated beside him. Yet for as much as Owen may resemble his mother, his reticent behavior could not be more distant from the forthcoming matron of the house. Tom smirks to himself as he considers how angry Florence might become if he told her that her outgoing nature came from Florence’s mother.

“Florence tells me that you have already found our library, and that you are an avid reader.”

Tom wants to ask what else Florence has said about him, instead he nods his head. Beside him Florence is whispering something into the ear of a house elf which she pats on the head and offers her kindest smile which makes his chest ache. The elf disappears with a _crack_.

“Should you be unable to find anything of interest in the main collection, there is a smaller library on the third floor as well that you can help yourself too.”

“Thank you,” Tom says, turning as the door opens to see the elf returning with a silver tray bearing a teapot and empty cup and saucer.

“Mistress Florence tells Waylon that Mister Tom prefers tea in the mornings. Waylon will make sure to have some for the duration of his stay,” the elf says with a small bow. Beside him, Florence’s hand comes to rest on his and something within him warms.

“Owen, Tom gave the most incredible gift of transfiguration to the Samhain fire, you would have been impressed by it.” Florence is staring up at him as she speaks, as if lost in recollection. He loves that she naturally has come to idolize him, that he didn’t need to prove anything to her to earn the adoration she gives him. _Magic is magic_ her words ring in his head.

“Really? What did you transfigure,” the man asks after swallowing a mouthful of food.

“Fire,” Tom purrs under Florence’s praise. It really had been incredible if he was being fair.

They spend the rest of breakfast discussing Samhain – the intricacies of the ceremony and the varying benefits of both Florence and Tom’s offerings. Owen Allman, while rather aloof, was clearly well educated and had a thirst for knowledge that put even Florence to shame. Tom found himself impressed against his wishes, and curious to find the smaller library that the young man had recommended.

Florence departed soon after finishing her meal to fetch Lizzie and go for a ride, Owen assumedly to his rooms for more research, leaving Tom free to wander the house. It seemed to grow the further he peered into its depths, revealing to Tom one secret at a time. There were more bedrooms than Tom knew what to do with, but Tom also discovered a personal potions laboratory, two more studies, a hallway devoted entirely to doors that reached his knees which could only be the house elves quarters, and an indoor swimming pool in the cellar. Everywhere he went the home reeked of magic, pantry doors opening to reveal bottle after bottle of potions labeled in tight, illegible handwriting, portraits of long deceased ancestors demanding his name and how he had gained access to their home. He ignores them. Tom has never felt the need for any kind of permission, instead opting to take what he wants.

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Tom did not see Florence again until that evening as he pulled on a muggle suit, foregoing the tie, and made his way down to one of the smaller sitting rooms for evening cocktails. He’d explored what felt like only a fraction of the home, fascinated with every crevasse, and yet he could not shove away the relief that came with Florence’s figure appearing before him as he entered the drawing room. All three of the girls were already seated inside, each dressed in calf length, jewel-toned dresses and clutching stemmed wine glasses. Yet there were others Tom did not know – a young woman with golden waves which stretched to her waist and two adults that could be found speaking to Mrs. Allman beside the window. Without a comment he accepted the proffered drink, holding it loosely at his hip.

Tom’s entrance pulled Florence’s attention away from the new girl, her eyes tracing his form appreciatively as he approached her side. Her black dress was becoming, but there was an undeniable sense of loss that came with the absence of her jeans, that her body was hidden from his sight under so many mountains of fabric. Still, she is beautiful, a sun to which he feels incomprehensibly drawn. He cannot ever remember thinking anything was beautiful before Florence, and now it seems in repeated fits of weakness he cannot stop thinking it.

“You look handsome, Tom,” Lizzie says poignantly, her stark, summer blue gaze drifting knowingly between himself and Florence.

“Likewise, Greengrass,” he intones, barely noticing the ruby of her dress.

“You do look handsome,” Florence murmurs, and he allows himself to smile because for some reason it _matters_ to him that she thinks so, even if he is dressed in Muggle attire.

“This is Margaret Calhoun, Tom,” Florence continues, motioning to the golden haired newcomer who was dressed in a pale pink. Tom takes her hand and kisses it dutifully before returning his eyes to Florence. “Albion proposed to Margaret last week.”

“Congratulations,” Tom says stiffly, annoyed that he must participate in this series of small talk when he is in an enchanted home and Florene is beside him, both more agreeable alternatives.

“Thank you, it’s nice to meet you,” Margaret beams. Her voice is slightly too high for his liking, but she seems charming enough “Florence tells me your from London, I’ve always wanted to go.”

“There isn’t much of London to see at the moment,” Tom tells her through gritted teeth. Margaret’s face falls slightly.

“Oh, of course, the NoMaj war, I’d forgotten…” Her voice trails off, face blushing slightly at her mistake, but Tom is spared from acknowledging Florence’s reproachful glare by the entrance of two other people into the parlor.

“Tallulah!” Florence nearly shouts, skirting around him to a copper haired girl who throws herself into Florence’s arm. “ _Ohmygoodness_ ,” Florence hisses so quickly that her words blur into one another. Tom feels awkward standing and watching the two women embrace, as if he is a discarded piece of luggage Florence has abandoned for this newer model. His fury mounts.

“Look at you,” the girl – Tallulah – chimes, spinning to take in Florence’s appearance. “You’re looking a bit pale, Florie, darling. Thank god you’re back so we can get you into the sun.”

“How’ve you been?”

“Absolutely bored out of my mind,” Tallulah says in a matter of fact voice as she takes the proffered glass of wine from one of the house elves. “Although your letters have been wonderful, thank you for them.”

“Are your parents coming?” Florence asks, her face still creased in that smile that Tom thinks of as _his_ smile, but here she is giving it to this unknown girl. A vein in his temple throbs.

“No, they couldn’t be spared, but I’ve brought Forsythe,” Tallulah says, motioning to the boy standing just behind her.

Florence too turns her attention to the young man. Tom watches with flickering red vision as the tall, copper haired boy stoops to press his lips to Florence’s cheek before enveloping her into a tight embrace. He has olive skin marred by five o’clock shadow and pale green eyes which are fixed resolutely upon Florence’s face as if she is the most wonderful thing he has ever seen. Tom wants to hex the look from the lumbering oaf’s features, to burn off the fingers which hold his witch with such familiarity.

“Missed you, Florence,” the young man says loud enough for Tom and everyone assembled to hear, his hand still lingering on Florence’s waist.

“Forsythe, so glad you’re here,” Florence says in that hollow, earnest voice that makes something within Tom twinge. He cannot help but notice that her hand is still clutching his bicep, the ease with which they seem to greet each other.

“Come meet my friends, both of you,” Florence says, finally releasing the boy and taking Tallulah’s hand to bring them over to where Tom and the others are standing.

At once Tallulah and Lizzie are hugging and smiling as if kindred souls, Radella too offering the girl a warm embrace despite not being from an ancient wizarding family. Philip and Forsythe clasp hands like they are old pals, and then the pale green eyes of the young man are upon Tom and they are attempting to crush each other’s fingers, both of their jaws perhaps tighter than a moment before. Florence seems oblivious to their silent duel, lost in conversation with the loud gaggle of girls discussing their dresses and life at Hogwarts. But Tom is too much of a predator himself not to notice a challenger, like lions circling a kill.

“Forsythe Blount,” the boy says gruffly.

“Tom Riddle.”

They release each other after a long moment and return to their drinks. Tom had felt for his magical core – strong, but nothing remarkable. This discovery soothes him slightly. Florence is too special, too powerful to be swayed by someone as mundane as this Forsythe boy he reassures himself. Moments later Eudora Allman is calling them into dinner.

They enter into a different dining hall than the one from the night before, the table arranged with a variety of white flowers and cards with their names designating where they should sit. Tom finds himself between Philip and a woman who introduces herself as Mrs. Kennedy. Florence is seated directly across from him, but her eyes are upon Forsythe as he helps her into her seat before taking the chair directly to the right of her.

“Now, where in England are you from,” Mrs. Kennedy asks of Tom, forcing him to look away from Florence to meet her slightly twitchy gaze. Tom plasters his society mask upon his face, crossing his legs under the table and resigning himself to a long dinner without Florence for conversation.

“London, ma’am,” he informs her with a simpering smile that every woman to date has fallen for. Mrs. Kennedy is no different, beaming at him to reveal a spot of lipstick on her front tooth.

“Lovely city, absolutely lovely,” she says. “I went to visit several years ago. There’s a wizarding theater on the West End that we took the kids to see The Tale of the Three Brothers. Great Production.”

Tom nods politely because of course, no one has ever taken _him_ to see a wizarding play. Tom files the name away for later. He’s never heard of the story, and like all aspects regarding the wizarding world, he is curious.

“Of course,” Mrs. Kennedy continues despite Tom’s silence. “We haven’t been able to go because of the war. Terrible situation, all those bombings. I wonder how the NoMaj’s manage to protect themselves.”

“Do your papers cover the muggle war?” Tom asks, surprised by her knowledge of the far off battle. Tom himself was only familiar because of summers spent in the orphanage, something he’d been spared from last Summer when he’d been invited to stay at the Malfoys. Still, the Daily Prophet certainly wasn’t covering the battle between Axis and Allies unless somehow wizards got tangled into the affair.

“Yes, of course!” Mrs. Kennedy clarifies, finishing her glass of wine with relish. “It’s very important that we keep abreast of their comings and goings, what with the separation of society here.”

“Florence has informed me that the separation is not clear cut as Rappaports Law would have you think,” Tom presses, intrigued.

“Well, she’s right of course. Especially down here where it seems like every other farm is a NoMaj family. It’s all those uptight Yankees in Manhattan that insist upon the full separation – almost impossible to enforce really across fifty states and with the population boom.”

“So you intermarry?” Tom asks horrified, trying to prevent his mouth from falling open.

“Well, that one’s a bit easier for MACUSA to track down,” Mrs. Kennedy admits, lowering her glass so that a house elf can refill it. “But it happens from time to time. My great-grandfather married a NoMaj, caused quite a stir, and one of his sons ended up being a squib. One of his NoMaj descendants was the recent British Ambassador – Joe Kennedy – and from what we hear in the family, his son John could make a go for NoMaj President in a few years’ time when the war ends.”

“Fascinating,” Tom murmurs, and Mrs. Kennedy blushes, either too drunk or too stupid to realize he was mocking her. _Imagine being proud of having muggle relatives_ he considered, his eyes finding their way back to Florence. He hadn’t been proud of his, but they were a blight he had quickly remedied. Florence, Tom saw, was deep in conversation with Forsythe, a sight which did nothing to brighten his mood.

The meal passes laboriously slow. Despite the food, which is rich and flavorful and warms even his cold stomach, Tom cannot help but be bored by the tradition of it. He pretends to listen politely during the third course as Philip tells Albion and his fiancé Margaret about some of the milder objects that have come into his father’s store. It is a fundamentally uninteresting story, but Tom makes note to check Borgin & Burke’s for the locket after graduation. If it was to be found in any store, it would certainly be that one.

At the far end of the table, Tallulah and Mrs. Allman are deep in discussion about the debut season which Tom recalls he had intended to research, but had failed to do so when he’d stumbled across Avery cursing a second year mudblood and had joined in to assist in the fun. Unfortunately Tom cannot hear their full conversation from his position, catching only odd phrases about gowns and invitees to his growing frustration.

After dinner they retire to a sitting room with a fire roaring in a family sized marble hearth. Tom stands in the shadows beside the fire where no one can bother him with conversation and where he can keep an eye on Forsythe Blount, who is whispering something into Florence’s ear which makes her smile and flush. Tom has the urge to strangle the boy, his sight turning crimson on the edges. He doesn’t understand why there is a sharp pain in his side every time Florence looks at the copper haired young man seated beside her. Wasn’t she his? Didn’t she know that?

Albion acquiesces to his mother’s request to regale them with his proposal story, and then at last the clock strikes midnight and it is time for their guests to depart. Tom remains at the back of the assembled throng, and when the front door closes, he turns and makes his way to his bedroom without so much as a goodnight, frantic, furious energy flowing through his limbs.

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This time when Florence wakes Tom, she gently shakes his shoulder, her hands soft but insistent. Tom sits up sharply, startled from the magically induced sleep he’d used to calm his racing thoughts before bed. Florence’s eyes glow golden in the light of the moon, her face rapt with some kind of tension that he immediately, illogically wants to slip behind and ease.

“I want to show you something,” she whispers, and he notices that there is something thrown over her shoulder – a pair of jeans and set of jogging shoes, two items he has never worn before. He eyes them suspiciously, disliking the idea of wearing any hand-me-down of Albion Allmans, even if it was Florence asking.

“Please, it’s important.”

And, as always, it is Florence’s begging which stirs him to action. Tom pulls on the pants over his boxers, flustered slightly by the way Florence bites her lip, watching him unabashedly button the stiff article at his hips and adjust the simple white t-shirt he’d slept in.

“Florence? Shall we,” he asks once his shoes are tied. With a slight jerk of her head as if she had fallen into a dream, Florence reaches for his hand and pulls him behind her. Tom follows silently, noting that she moves across the creaking floorboards without making a sound, his confusion smothered by overwhelming curiosity.

Florence leads him outside, closing the door behind them before stopping beside one of the two sentinel oaks.

“Normally I’d walk,” she explains, her eyes meeting his, “but since it’s your first time I’ll apparate us there.”

“You can apparate?” Tom asks, surprised, although why he continues to be surprised by her he does not know.

“You get your license at sixteen in the U.S.,” she clarifies with a small smile that does nothing to melt the strain she is still carrying. With a brief nod, Tom lets her hold him close where he has wanted her since they left for America before she turns on the spot and pulls him into the vacuum of space and pressure, only to reappear moments later gasping.

The ground under his feet is soft, and opening his eyes Tom realizes they are on a freshly tilled field somewhere on the Allman property, although the great white house is nowhere to be seen. To his left a copse of trees dots a great hillside, a river snaking along behind it. Florence takes his hand once more and leads him towards the trees where they step into shadow with the easy confidence of someone who has tread this path many times. Florence, Tom assumes, has.

“Adsila was the first person to show me what I’m going to show you,” she says in her hollow, earnest voice, and again that place she has come to occupy under his ribs glows. “I’ve never taken anyone here. I don’t even think my brothers know.”

“What is it,” Tom asks, unable to wait. He can feel the magic of this place, although ever since he stepped onto the Allman property, he’s felt like his own magic was under attack, the power around his was so great. Yet this hillside seemed different, more unkept, foreign in some manner. Tom feels the familiar fluttering of hunger, the possibility of magical discovery.

“Soon,” she whispers.

They are climbing now, leaves crunching underfoot, occasional glimpses of stars or the moon filter down below. Tom’s breathing is unsteady, unaccustomed to physical labor, but soon enough they have reached the top of the hill, and with it a small clearing.

Florence drops Tom’s hand here and steps tentatively out into the open space, her hair silver in the light, her face upturned towards the sky. Her eyes are closed, scrunched as if in extreme concentration, and Tom finds himself leaning forward, waiting with baited breath when suddenly there is a thunder of wings and Tom falls back in shock.

A creature was landing before them, massive and white with feathered wings the span of a Hogwarts greenhouse buffeting the air, threatening to knock Tom over. It had claw-like feet which connected to a furry, white body and a opalescent reptilian tail that thrashed the air – a tuft of white fur floating at the end of the appendage. It’s head was as large as Tom. A lion’s head with a full mane of white hair and a set of brilliant golden antlers protruding from its forehead, but Tom found he could not look away from the milky gray, pupil-less eyes of the beast which were fixed upon Florence as the ground shuddered with the monster’s impact.

“ _Cub,_ ” a raspy, growling voice echoed in Tom’s head that could only be coming from the creature before him. His heart beat wildly as he fought the urge to pull out his wand and kill the thing before him. “ _I was hunting when you called_.”

Florence steps forward and bows, her face solemn but unafraid. Clearly the voice had echoed in her head as well.

“ _Illini, my apologies,_ ” Florence’s voice echoes in Tom’s head and he wonders if she knows how to do this, or if the bridge between their minds has somehow been forged by this creature. Standing before the beast, a small brown speck before the sea of white fur, Tom has the strange thought that she _belongs_ here, that Florence is somehow one with this place and this creature in a manner Tom has never been anywhere, not even Hogwarts.

“ _It has been long since you visited me, cub,_ ” the creatures voice purrs. Tom cannot tell if it is male or female, he knows only that it reverberates through his bones like a tornado. “ _Adsila was never so long between trips to my woods.”_

“ _I have been away, across the ocean, Illini. Forgive me.”_

_“There is nothing to forgive, cub,”_ the creature hums, and the ground rumbles. _“Who is the shadowed one you have brought to see me?”_

Florence turns to peer over her shoulder, and without comment she holds out her hand to Tom. He steps into the moonlight and within the grasp of the beast which has now sat on its haunches, its scaly tale wrapped around it’s legs. Tom meets the creature’s milky gaze, waiting for it to speak once more, unsure how to access the link in his mind.

Yet the creature says nothing, it’s nostrils flaring slightly as if he smells of something foul. Florence’s hand trembles and then falls from his, and Tom turns to see that she is crying soundlessly. With dawning understanding, Tom realizes that this creature – whatever it is – is now speaking directly to Florence. After several minutes of quiet, Tom feels a great pressure against his skull and all of his occlumency shields are ripped aside as if made of straw. He staggers.

_“You have a well-guarded mind, cub,”_ the creature Florence had called Illini rasps. The voice is sharper, which Tom suspects is a result of her speaking directly and solely to him. _“But I did not need to see into your mind to taste your power. It fills the air like smoke before you. She does not know, she suspects, but she does not know…”_

_“Florence?”_ Tom asks, feeling a welling of pride that this mythical being had seen something within him.

_“Yet you are so young to be un-whole, even with your strength I can feel it, spaces missing in your life force…”_ Illini continues, the great white head lowering down to the ground so that Tom is staring directly into its eye. He can see his own reflection in the milky orb – he looks pale and agitated. _How does she know about my horcruxes_ he wants to demand, but refrains.

“ _I can see that your regard for her has occupied this emptiness. Her esteem for you is equal, yet I wonder which of you will walk away unscathed?”_

_“Walk away?”_ Tom asks, his thoughts derailed. “ _Florence is mine, she belongs to me.”_

_“Nobody is anybody’s, anybody is nobody’s,”_ Illini rumbles, and the ground shakes again with what Tom thinks might be laughter. _“Does the sun belong to us because we feel it? The moon because we see by it? No, cub. We are like passing currents of wind, some which melt into one, others which crash and form thunder.”_

_“What has she told you of me?”_ Tom demands.

_“Nothing which was not written plainly upon her heart and mind. In all her years she has never brought another to see me. You should feel honored above all others.”_

Tom thinks he feels nauseous more than anything. He has never communicated with a being like this beyond his Basilisk, but she was his to wield and control. This feathered, scaled lion was wild and beyond his authority and more than Florence’s distance or the new magic of America, Tom felt unsettled by his lack of power now.

_“Should you hurt her, the land will heal my cub – I wonder which will heal you, broken as you already are.”_

_“I am immortal,”_ he hisses mentally, his brain pounding with the creatures riddles. _“I cannot be broken.”_

_“To forgo death is to sacrifice life,”_ Illini rumbles. _“I should know, I have not died.”_

_“But Florence cares for me?”_ Tom hears himself asking, the petulance in his voice making himself wince. She’s never said it in so many words, and suddenly the confirmation of his fascination’s feelings was paramount to Tom. To his conquest of her. To that space she had claimed within his chest.

_“You are here, are you not? Yet I question if you even know what it means, blind as you are.”_

_“She is mine,”_ Tom repeats because he does not know what else to think.

_“For now,”_ Illini agrees, its great milky eye blinking once. _“But she is likewise to many things – my cub, progeny of Adsila, voice of the Great Spirit. You are likewise hers, but I see your mind, your potential, and I wonder who you will each belong to in the end.”_

The creature sits back upon its haunches once more, exiting Tom’s mind with a cold snap. He swallows and reaches for Florence, pulling her against his chest where he can feel the steady rising and falling of her breath. _Mine, mine, mine_ he thinks over and over as if he is slipping into madness.

_“Do not be so long, my cub,”_ Illini instructs. _“You may bring this one with you when you come.”_

And then the air is once more full of wind and the creature has flown away into the night, leaving the two of them wrapped in each other’s arms.

“What was that?” Tom asks after a moment, his voice hoarse and croaking as his eyes trace the sky.

“A Piasa,” Florence supplies, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw. “What did she tell you?”

Tom regards her for a moment, the words still reverberating in his skull. Coded warnings and musings, declarations of emotion. He opts for the truth, or part of it.

“That you are mine.”

And he kisses her, pulling her lips to his as if she is the very air he needs to breathe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there are Tom's first thoughts of America! Please feel free to let me know what you think, and if you're still here reading 22 chapters in, what can I say but THANK YOU!!!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say thank you as always to the people who stop to comment and leave kudos on my work. I just recently got a job which is great, but before that I can say that I was going through a really rough patch and seeing everyone's comments, even something simple like "nice chapter" was always enough to turn my day around. I try to respond to everyone, but I just wanted to reiterate how grateful I am for your words and your time and your dedication to this story!! I can't say enough about how wonderful all of you are.
> 
> Also, light (?) smut in this chapter. It's nothing super graphic, and it's also my first time writing something like this, so giving warning for both things. I've also updated the tags:) As always, thanks for being here and happy reading Xx

**Chapter 23**

“People have forgotten this truth," the fox said. "But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose.”  
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

Florence cannot remember a happier week in her life.

She wakes to the sight of her land out of the window, all the more beautiful to Florence for the time spent away, for returning to its song and its majesty. Waking is followed by breakfasts on the back porch, the family house elves fawning over her like she is still six years old, supplying her with endless coffee and all of her favorite delicacies. The late morning hours are full of rides with Lizzie and once or twice Tallulah around the fields, discussing Florence and Tallulah’s upcoming debut, Albion’s or Lizzie’s wedding plans, and all other kinds of drama. Afternoons were spent in equally pleasurable ways – picnics along the river, games of wizard’s checkers on the lawn, and even a trip into Spectre for Radella to find a Christmas gift for her parents.

Albion took Philip hunting, Owen shared his research with Radella, and Eudora as good as adopted Lizzie as an honorary daughter. Tom followed her like a shadow when he wasn’t off exploring the home or the property on his own, which meant that she had plenty of time to tell him every detail of her life in Georgia, and to answer those questions which Florence had never stopped to consider.

“This land has been in your family for generations?” Tom asks as they walk down the row of one of the mature fields, the trees towering above their heads. He is dressed in the jeans Florence had taken from Albion, their worn fabric hugging his legs, and if possible, making him even more unbearably attractive than ever before. She’d nearly peeled them off of Tom when she’d watched him slide into them nights before, caught defenseless as his effortless, tousled beauty surfaced in the moonlight.

“Yes, it gets passed down,” Florence agrees, wrapping an arm around his waist for the simple joy of being able to touch him.

 _The emotion runs strong between you_ , Illini had said. _I can feel it in your magic where he has touched you._ The words seemed to haunt Florence. Her hand tightens on his torso.

“Who will your father pass it too?”

“I think he intends to divide it – Albion will get the plantation, Owen the shipping business,” Florence murmurs, looking away from him. She is unable to control the ripple of fury that passes through her as the words exit her mouth. She, who knows more of the enchantments that protected and nourished this land than both of her brothers combined, would get nothing.

“And you?” Tom asks in that knowing voice that seems to strip away her layers without trying.

“I’ll get married off, and I won’t be an Allman anymore. If dad left anything to me, it will leave our family.”

Tom does not say anything, but he freezes and wraps an arm around her shoulders, drawing her in near to his side. Glancing up at his face, she sees a storm in his features, his eyes flickering and his mouth downturned. His expression is dark and at odds with the beauty of the day around them and the light filtering through the trees.

“And you are okay with this? That you will be robbed of this place?”

“Of course not,” Florence whispers. It is the first time she has every voiced this – to anyone. She cannot tell her brothers, guilt them because they were born men and she a woman, nor can she tell Tallulah or Lizzie her closest friends, who have neither the understanding nor the desire to run a plantation. But Tom knows her, her love of magic, how it defined her worth. “The magic of the land is _my_ magic. Do you think I want to be separated from it?”

“Maternal lines,” Tom says, but his voice is oddly distant, as if he is lost in memory.

“Our farm is so fruitful because Adsila taught us the magic of her people and of the way to control it, and other Cherokee’s before her taught others of my ancestors. Now there is only me – what will happen if I am not here to renew the wards? To teach the next generation?”

“This should be yours, it should pass to you, you are the one who cares for it,” Tom spits, and suddenly she is pressed against a tree and he is staring down at her with a frantic energy that makes her pulse thunder in her chest and her mind go numb.

“I would give you all of this, I would never deny you your birthright.”

“If only it was yours to give,” Florence whispers, placing a hand on his cheek, letting her thumb brush across his lips. There is fire in his midnight eyes, the thrill of their depths meeting her own no less poignant for its frequency these days.

 _He will try to give you the world, and you must decide if you will take it_ Illini had said.

“I was denied my birthright, but I have been working to get it back. I would help you keep yours,” he mutters in a voice like thunder and lightning, and his hands wrap around her waist as his forehead presses against hers. She can hear the excitement in his tone, as if they are discussing magical theory deep in a corner of the Hogwarts library. The space in her heart for him grows with his promises, nearly every inch of the beating muscle within her ribs occupied by the thought of him – he who saw her, who thought she was _more_ , who was powerful beyond belief and could share his knowledge with her.

She wonders if he will ask for her heart, or if he knows it already belongs to him.

.

.

.

Florence takes Tom to their potions laboratory. It is a long, narrow brick building with a tin roof and small, black shuttered windows a few acres from the main home. The ceiling inside is full of drying Dittany leaves that hang in messy bunches, and tables line the walls with burners and cauldrons of varying sizes.

Tom unbuttons his shirt as he works, the thick cotton fabric sticking to his porcelain skin as he sweats in the vapors of brewing Dittany concentrate. It is because of the heat, Florence tells herself, that he has slowly revealed his skin to her wandering eye. But there is no denying the smirk that dances along his lips, the gentle cocking of his head whenever he catches her glazed expression through the smoke. It is a look that does nothing to cool the heat between her legs, the churning electricity between their beings.

“Don’t stir so quickly,” Florence corrects, watching a his motions calm slightly. “If the leaves are over agitated this late in the brewing, it will ruin the entire potion.”

“The potion is perfect, Florence,” he says in the self-assured voice of their Charms and Defense lessons. She cannot disagree – Florence thinks he may have memorized the steps to the process after he’d discovered that she already knew how to brew it.

“It really is a good batch,” she admits, glancing into the depths of the simmering pot with a modicum of satisfaction. Tom smirks at her words, and Florence has to turn and glance around the lab because her mind has gone suddenly blank at the heated stare he is giving her. “I’m sure there’s an extra vial around here that we could use if you want some.”

“I can have a vial?” Tom asks, his voice subdued. Florence turns to look at him after summoning an empty bottle from the stack at the end of the room – she notices the flash in his eyes at her successful summoning charm, the tiny details that only Tom notices which make her float a few inches off the ground.

“Of course – you made it,” she says, offering him the cut crystal vial.

“How much is this cauldron worth?” Tom asks, peering at the sage green liquid which is growing ever more silver with every six stirs, his voice still subdued.

“Couple hundred galleons?” Florence shrugs, and then flushes, this time not as a result of one of Tom’s passionate stares. “But it doesn’t matter. This is such a small batch, my dad wouldn’t mind. He’d consider it a housewarming gift.”

Tom nods, his face relaxing slightly at the wording that it was a gift. Florence can imagine that he does not like charity, despite his love of presents – both runovers from his time at the orphanage. One from being reliant on the goodwill of others, and the love of gifts a result of not receiving enough as a child.

“Tell me again about Dittany Concentrate’s applications?” He questions, his voice returning to his usual demands. Florence smiles at him, at the easy way which he seems to brush off these inconveniences.

“It heals wounds from minor to intermediate, alleviates the worst symptoms of some major burns or lacerations. It can also be used for minor spell damage, splinching, or even just to keep your skin soft and hair strong into old age.”

This seems to peak Tom’s interest.

“Dittany fights the signs of aging?”

“Fights?” Florence considers. “No, maybe lessens.”

“But if Dittany was consumed in enough quantity, could it prolong life?” Tom has leaned forward, his hand stilling as he stops stirring the potion between them.

“I’ve never thought about it.”

“Think about it now.” His voice is like thunder and Florence wants to round the table and press him against the wall, to peel away his sweat soaked shirt and run her fingers through his hair and scrape her nails along his back until her name is a moan upon his lips. She stays put.

“It is possible, I suppose,” she says at last, her eyes never leaving his. Florence thinks of Adsila, who lived well beyond her years with great vivacity and strength until the end, ever present amongst the Dittany fields. “I don’t think it would be indefinite, but it might extend life and vitality to some extent.”

“You should consume it. Daily.”

Tom’s voice has taken on an odd ringing quality that seems to reverberate throughout her body. Florence feels the energy between them reach an almost unbearable level of ferocity, and she has to grip the table to stop herself from launching at him.

“Scared I’m going to die soon or something? I’m not that bad at magic,” she teases, but her cheeks redden as she hears the breathiness of her own voice. _How does he always manage to reduce you to a nervous fool with just his voice_ she wonders, but she doesn’t really care.

“As if I would let you die,” Tom says, his voice harsh with ridicule.

It is one of the most unnerving things anyone has ever said to Florence. She could see that he meant it – that he truly felt that he could keep Florence alive through his sheer force of will and magical ability, but why he feels that is necessary she cannot comprehend. Somewhere inside her, Florence recognizes that he is saying he cared for her, that he wanted to protect her. And yet Tom had phrased it in such a way to make death itself seem trivial. As if the establishment of immortality was nothing more than another homework assignment or Head Boy duty Tom was set to complete. _He will try to give you the world_ Illini’s voice echoed once more, and Florence felt herself blush at the look he was giving her – like he wanted to devour Florence where she stood.

“I’m not going anywhere, Tom,” she murmurs, but whether she is talking about dying and moving on into the next world, or leaving him, she does not know. Tom’s face splits into a feral grin that makes her knees tremble.

“You’re mine, Florence. You know that right?”

She has the strange desire to ask if he’d ever been taught to share in his Orphanage, if he understands the differences of their station, that he will go on to be powerful and influential and Florence will be summoned home by the calling of her land? Yet his words have thrilled her, sent her heart racing at like wind across the planes. Some part of her being warns her that Tom will not be satisfied by a life in Georgia with her, even upon a plantation such as this where magic lives in the very stones and trees and air. He is the boy who asks if Dittany can make you immortal and throws dark curses at her without question, and she is the girl set to debut into society in May, and yet Florence says none of this. How can she when he has already taught her more magic in a few months than she has ever know? When Tom’s touch can melt her with the slightest brush?

“I am yours, only if you understand you are mine.”

Tom’s face flushes, but his smile widens further.

“Do you think you can claim me?” He asks, and his voice is another challenge that he wants Florence to meet. Her pulse is a bird trapped within her ribs, threatening to burst forth at any moment.

“You have just offered to halt death for me, if I cannot claim you, no one can,” she whispers, and still they have not looked away from one another. “Would you do it for any other?”

“No,” Tom confirms with such certainty that Florence feels her chest expand with some unnamed levity. She thinks she might cry. She doesn’t care that death cannot be halted, it is the singularity with which he speaks, that _she_ who cannot even perform a jelly-legs jinx has been deemed special too Tom.

“Then you are mine.”

“As you are mine,” he confirms.

This time, she does not stop herself from launching her body at him, Tom only barely managing to brace himself before their lips are meeting and magic is exploding across their skin. With a nonverbal wave of his hand, the fire under the potion dies, and Florence feels his hands begin to roam her figure, marking his territory with each brush of his fingers. She smiles against his mouth when his hands sink into her hips. _Mine_ she thinks as his magic travels up her arms in a burst of pleasure. _Mine_.

.

.

.

Lizzie and Florence are seated upon the second floor side porch, watching Owen and Radella as the walk side by side through the rose garden adjacent to the home. There is a platter of meats and cheeses on the table between them and several empty bottles of wine.

“He likes her,” Florence says, the fuzziness in her brain not preventing her from picking up on the obvious. Radella and Owen had spent much of their free time together over the past several days. “I’ve never seen Owen talk to a girl this much in my life, let alone the same girl.”

“She’s very pretty, and she seems to like to listen to his research.” Lizzie giggles. “Not that there’s anything wrong with research, but _I_ certainly wouldn’t be able to listen for that long.”

“You can’t listen to anything not about you for more than a few minutes, Lizzie.”

“Cor-rect,” The English girl said, dragging out the _rr_ ’s until they rolled off her tongue. Florence snorted and then took another long sip of wine.

“Mom won’t like this one bit, she’s been trying to marry Owen off since he turned seventeen to one of the old families. She’s determined to do anything that will make us miserable, unless it’s Albion.”

“That’s because Albion is the handsome one,” Lizzie giggles again, her blue eyes fixating upon Florence.

“You’re _married_ , Lizzie. Stop pining after my brother.”

“ _Engaged_ , darling,” Elizabeth corrects, the finger she points at Florence wobbling in her drunken state. “You’ll know the difference when it happens to you.”

“God forbid anytime soon,” Florence says darkly.

“Tallulah’s brother, what’s his name?” Lizzie fumbled for the right words. “Fordham? Fitzwilliam?”

“Forsythe,” Florence supplies with a giggle of her own.

“Yes, _that’s_ the one. He’s stunning, and I bet he’d marry you even though you’re no fun and don’t want too.”

“Charming, Lizzie, honey.”

“Of course Riddle won’t like it, but did you see his green eyes? And he was so strong, and broad shouldered. I bet he’d break you in two, if you understand my meaning.”

Lizzie laughs into her hand, spilling a bit of her wine onto the floor. Florence feels her face turning scarlet, and she rolls her eyes to hide her embarrassment. There wasn’t a girl in Spectre who hadn’t had wicked dreams of Forsythe Blount. It was hard not too when he looked like Adonis, but all the same, Lizzie really was being quite raunchy.

“Do you think my mom likes Tom?” Florence asks, reaching for a bite of cheese.

“Your mom likes anyone with manners, and Riddle has more than everyone else combined.”

“You know what I mean, Lizzie.”

“Well, Riddle doesn’t have a farm to inherit, which is a point against him I’m afraid.”

“Fair point well made,” Florence concedes, raising her glass in a mock toast before downing its contents. The wine is cool against her tongue, but she can feel it warming her as the alcohol runs through her system.

“Maybe Riddle and Forsythe can duel for you,” Lizzie gasps, her pale face flushing as she considers the possibility. “Merlin that would be romantic.”

“Tom would murder Forsythe,” Florence laughs, remembering the curses he’d thrown at her shield beside the lake. Lizzie leans back against her chair with a slump.

“You’re right, he can be so _serious_ sometimes. And he’s already so territorial of you with all the touching and following you around.” Lizzie takes another sip. “He’s going to be so mad when you tell him about the debut.”

“He’s not out of the running yet,” Florence points out, watching as Owen draws Radella’s eye to a flowering plant she can’t remember the name of in her haze.

“No, but I don’t think he’ll like competing for you,” Lizzie concludes with a knowing wag of her finger.

Florence does not answer, recalling the way Tom had pressed his lips to her collarbone, whispering that she was his, she belonged to him into her skin. _No, I don’t think he will_.

“Mistress Florence,” a squeaky voice calls, and both girls turn to see a house elf speeding towards them.

“Hello, June Bug,” Florence coos, her pet name for the tiny elf returning to her in her drunken haze. The elf’s eyes widen as she takes in the two swaying girls.

“Misters Albion and Philip have returned from the shooting, and they have asked June to see if Missy’s Florence and Lizzie would like to go swimming in the river!”

“Oh _yes_ , June,” Florence exclaims, getting to her feet only to fall right back into her chair. “But you’ll need to get us two sober up potions if you don’t mind. We’ll wait here.”

The two girls burst into uncontrolled laughter as June disappears with a curtsy and a _crack_.

.

.

.

“I thought I might find you in here,” Florence murmured, leaning against the doorway where she could admire Tom’s figure as he leaned over several open manuscripts on the table before him. They were in the third floor library, home to Owen’s personal collection of high level Transfiguration texts, Florence’s childhood novels, and several experimental or extremely rare pieces that her grandfather had collected over his lifetime. She’d been finding him in various rooms of the home, even once in her bedroom as she returned from a ride, his porcelain face stooped low to observe moving pictures of Florence and her brothers.

Tom was seated at the only table, his pale skin waxy in the firelight, but his face fell into an easy smirk as watched her enter and close the door behind her. It was still early in the morning, the light outside the window pale and blue, as if the sun itself was struggling to wake.

“Your brother has quite a comprehensive collection. Some of these books teeter on dark,” Tom muses as Florence comes to halt before him at the table, leaning against the polished surface.

“You heard him the other night, he believes in a _well-rounded_ approach to magical education.”

“Owen is wise beyond his years then,” Tom concludes, his smirk widening.

“And besides, you’ve thrown curses at me darker than anything you’ll find in these books.”

“I have,” Tom agrees, and still his smile is growing, shameless.

“Where did you even learn spells like that?”

“I can’t tell you that, Florence,” he murmurs, his voice deep and roiling. “I wouldn’t want to give you any hints for our next duel.”

“Have you figured out a way to get around my shield?” She asks.

Tom’s responding, fully-realized smile is his only reply. If she was wiser, she might have felt nervous for all his skill with magic, but instead she admires the shape of his eyes upturned into a grin, the gentle wave of his hair.

“I have something for you,” he murmurs, pointing to a piece of paper that is covered with his neat script. Tom hands it too her, their fingers brushing momentarily to the thrill of her magic. “I have been researching Native Magic. This is an old Norse spell which I have translated, the principals seemed the same. I thought we might try it, seeing as you’re fluent.”

Florence runs her fingers over the page, admiring the way in which he has utilized the space, each mark careful and precise. He is gifting her magic, just as he gifted the fire of Samhain, and Florence can feel herself smiling in return because she knows this will make her stronger, more capable.

“Thank you, Tom.”

He nods his head but remains silent watching her with midnight eyes like knives.

“My books are in here too,” Florence continues after a beat, turning and pointing to the right side of the room.

“Yes, I noticed that there was an entire case in languages I couldn’t read. I assumed you had something to do with it.”

Florence moves towards the back of the room and begins to peruse the shelves, looking for the faded white leather cover that she has cracked open what feels like hundreds of times. At last she spots it, noting the tear near the top, the gold leafing on the edges of the paper which has faded over the years into a dingy yellow. Pulling it from its place, Florence returns to Tom’s table and passes the book across to him.

“This was my copy of the _Iliad_ growing up,” she explains when noticing his blank expression. There is a spark of realization in his eye, and he gives a curt nod.

“And who am I today?”

“I’ve begun to think you’re always Achilles,” she said with a small sigh, “but with you sitting there and reading seven books at once, I must go with Odysseus.”

“This is in Greek,” Tom points out, flipping open the worn cover and flicking through the first few pages. Florence’s eyes are drawn to his fingers which are long and delicate and which part the pages of the book with ease. It is a distracting detail to say the least, and it takes all of her willpower to return to the conversation.

“That should hardly surprise you.”

“It does not surprise me, I am but acknowledging it.”

“My governess claimed that it was more beautiful in the original language – I think there was something to be said for it, but Dad read it to me in English, I think that copy is in here somewhere too…”

“He read aloud to you?”

Tom’s voice seems to reach Florence through the end of a tunnel, echoing and subdued. There was a wrench in Florence’s heart, and without meaning too, she can feel her pity for him welling within her. _Has no one ever read him a story?_ She thinks of nights in bed, her father tucking her under her quilt, his booming voice varying for each of the characters. It is a gift, to have someone else peel away their egos to step into and inhabit the pages of a book, and something inside of Florence seems to break imagining that no one has ever done this for him.

“Every night before bed,” Florence tells Tom, and she fights not to wince at the blank expression upon his beautiful face that makes her want to pull her heart from her chest and give it too him. “I could read it to you, I mean… of course, only if you’d want…it’s supposed to be read aloud,” Florence can feel herself stumbling for words. She hadn’t meant to offer, but he’d been staring at her like she was some kind of flame in the darkness and the proposal had surfaced unbidden in her mind, that she could share this too with him. Her words trailed away and she felt herself smile, a hopeless gesture to show that words had failed her.

“Go fetch the English copy, and then you may read it to me.”

His voice is a command, his features a wall, and yet Florence has so many keys to him now that she can see the curiosity behind his gaze, hear the wistfulness of his voice as he tries to comprehend why someone would do such a thing for another. Her cheeks tinge as she moves back towards one of the shelves and finds a thicker, illustrated version of the same text. The cover is blue with a gilded picture of Achilles standing before the rising sun. The tiny figure moves, removing his helmet and shaking his long mane of blonde hair, raising his spear triumphantly towards the sky. Florence feels a thickness in her chest as she remembers her father’s hands carrying the same book to her bedside.

“Over here,” Florence calls to Tom, and he moves to join her on the sofa, his movements predatory, his face softened by the morning light. He sits beside her, but she pulls him towards her so that his back is pressed to her front, his head nestled on her chest where her chin can rest on top of his head. Her arms extend over his shoulders, the book propped open on his sternum. “This way you can see the pictures.”

“I’ll hold the book, you read,” he orders, and Florence smiles into his mane of chocolate hair, pressing her lips to the crown of his head as his hands take the work from her own, flipping open to the first page.

Florence reads. Her voice is quiet and low in the early morning hour, her fingers tracing the collar of Tom’s shirt as he dutifully turns the pages. The tale flows back to her, as if through the amber of memory, of Agamemnon’s jealousy, Achilles rage, the wrath of Apollo avenging his priest. Tom does not waver, his body warm and still pressed against Florence’s as the fire crackles in the hearth and her voice washes throughout the room. Yet Florence can feel her eyes drooping, as if she is once more five years old, the words not coming from her mouth but from her fathers. She does not remember falling asleep, only feeling comfortable, cocooned in warmth and lost in the ancient tale she was making new.

Florence does not know if she slept for a few minutes or hours, but she awakes to find that Tom has shifted her – her body pressed between the back of the sofa and Tom, who is laying on his side and watching her with an unfathomable expression in his eyes, as if he was struggling with a great question he had no answer too.

“Florence,” he murmurs when Tom sees her stir, his pale lips flicking into a half smile, his hand – which has been tracing up and down her body like the lightest feather touch, stills briefly before continuing.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she murmurs, feeling her face warm because he has said her name like it is a prayer and a song and his face seems slightly shifted, as if he cannot see her.

“I read ahead, to the end of book one,” Tom admits. His brow wrinkles in an expression that is child-like. In her sleepy haze, the look endears him to her further if at all possible. “Is Achilles the hero of the story?”

“It’s a matter of opinion.”

“I don’t appreciate ambiguity,” Tom says, his face dropping.

“You should probably learn to live with it,” Florence whispers. “It is part of life.”

“Florence,” he calls after a moment. “Will you read the rest of it to me?”

“Whenever you want, angel,” she murmurs, pressing her face against his chest and breathing deeply of that clean, fresh scent that can only mean Tom. Her arm snakes around his torso, pressing him closer to her.

“Why do you call me that?”

“What? Angel?” Florence asks between yawns, sleep once more pulling at her mind as Tom’s hand tangles in her hair, his lips finding the top of her head in a chaste kiss. “I don’t know. It just sort of happened. Because I can.”

Florence tilts her face up so that her lips meet his, allowing her tongue to trace the curve of his cupid’s bow, tasting the tea still flavoring his mouth from hours ago. His hand presses into the small of her back, and then suddenly it is more insistent, his fingers like claws, desperately pulling at the hem of her shirt so that he can find purchase in the skin of her stomach, her back.

Florence is at once awake, one hand tangling in his hair, the other dragging down his back. They aren’t close enough, they have _never_ been close enough. A starvation for the feel of his skin, the brush of his lips and his tongue across every inch of her body ripples through her, and she moans. Tom swallows it like the sound is spirituality meant only for him.

All at once she has been shifted, Tom’s hand’s demanding as they pull her shirt over her head, their lips breaking apart for just one moment before crashing together once more, hungrier, more desperate. Tom rips at her bra without pretense, and all at once she is bared to him, her chest heaving as she gulps down air, seated astride him as he pulls away to observe her.

His midnight eyes have never appeared so black, his pupils fully dilated as he traces his thumb under the swell of her breast, his mouth parted slightly in wanton desire. Florence shivers under his ministrations, under his gaze which seems to set her one fire, goosebumps erupting across her skin. She wants him to touch her, for his thumbs to dig into her skin and leave marks deep and permanent, for the heat of his mouth to close over her skin, his long delicate fingers to part open her jeans. Florence is desperate, and yet the look he gives her makes her feel more powerful than any magic ever has, like she could ask anything of him and he would do it for her.

“You’re divinity,” he whispers, his eyes still trained on her heaving chest. “You’re divinity, and you’re _mine_.”

His lips find her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone, kissing down to the valley between her breasts as his hands grow more confident, cupping her chest, pinching her until she gasps with pleasure, her head thrown back until she can see only the ceiling. No one has ever touched her there, like this, and it makes her feel rushes of both embarrassment and desire, like a virgin being offered to the service of the gods.

And then suddenly there is another rippling feeling that passes through Florence, this one unrelated to the young man she is seated astride. It is the swelling of magic, of the wards of the property, a burst of enchantment so large and piercing that it can only mean one thing.

“Tom,” she gasps as his mouth closes over her breast and Florence has to swallow a moan. She’s never felt more torn in her entire life – desperate for him to continue, desperate to run to the front porch where she knows her father has just arrived through the property boundaries. Tom’s tongue is working her with a mind of its own, his eyes lifting to meet with hers, his nails digging into her back. Florence has never wanted to see her father less, the heat swirling within her core making her feel heady and forgetful. _Mine_ she thinks as their eyes meet, certain that no one else could make her feel this way, that no other woman could reduce Tom’s gaze to liquid fire.

“Tom, we have to go,” she whispers, lifting her hands from his shoulders to card her fingers through his hair, tilting his face from her chest so she can press her lips to his.

“Florence,” he whispers in return, but it is a moan, a beg to let him continue what they have started. His hands slide down her back to rest on her hips. “ _Florence_.”

“My father is here, we have to go great him,” she explains, kissing him between each word as if they are suddenly short of time and she has a quota she must reach. This may be the hardest thing she has ever done, trying to pull away from him when he is open and available for her to take. Still his hands do not release her, his mouth like Eden against hers.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groans, and even through her jeans and his slacks, she can feel the hardness between his legs, a foreign feeling that makes the heat within her grow. Florence lets out a breathy laugh as she gets to her feet, her face she is sure is cherry red as Tom leans against the back of the sofa and watches her redress, his gaze hooded and unabashed. It’s unfair that he can look this beautiful while sinful and debauched, lips pink from kissing, hair pleasantly askew, while Florence is sure her hair is wild and skin crimson. Air is still having a hard time finding her lungs.

“Go, I will meet up with you soon,” he says with a smirk, his eyes raking up and down her form, commanding even now. Florence tugs her shirt over her head, but Tom reaches for her before she can pull the garment across her stomach, clearly unable to let her leave without one final touch.

His fingers dig into her sides and Florence whimpers because she has never wanted to give herself to anyone but his touch makes her feel reckless and eager and she doesn’t want Tom to let go. With delicate movements Tom undoes the button of her jeans, making quick work of her zipper and peeling open the vestment to allow cool air to brush across her abdomen. Florence wants to ask what he is doing, but before she can form words her mind has turned to mush because he’s run his tongue up the exposed skin and the feeling is sin incarnate, the kisses that pepper her lower belly afterward like star fall.

“ _Mine_ ,” he whispers into her stomach, his breath raising goosebumps across her flesh before pulling away at last and re-buttoning her pants, Tom’s hands sliding down her thighs before leaving her body completely and coming to rest on either side of him along the back of the sofa. Florence feels bereft without his touch.

Taking a deep breath, she turns and exits the library, aware that Tom’s eyes are following her from the room, burning a hole through her ribs and into her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we have it... Tom's first half mention of avoiding death. Trying to lay the groundwork slowly because Tom is tricky if anything, and we know he's not just going to openly admit to being immortal. 
> 
> Also I love love, even obsessive, all consuming first love these two have:)
> 
> Also, I've been writing fan fiction for years and if you're the kind of person who reads Author's Notes, wow oh wow I love you. That's all, til next chapter!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello - I've had so many truly lovely comments recently I'm actually a bit overwhelmed with everyone's kindness. Sorry if saying thank you sounds redundant over and over, but I really am grateful and I truly cherish your words!! Also so many people are still here reading to chapter 24 and I'm honestly mind boggled over that?? I mean WHAT! You guys are great!!
> 
> Also - over 100 comments? 100 kudos? 20 something bookmarks? What's up with that!!! I'm floored - I cannot fathom why you are reading my story over the other masterpieces out there, but I am SO thrilled that you are. Thank you :) Xx

**Chapter 24**

“Even as a child she had lived her own small life within herself. At a very early period she had apprehended instinctively the dual life - that outward existence which conforms, the inward life which questions.”   
― Kate Chopin, The Awakening

Florence tugs at her shirt, as if she is worried that her skin is still bared to the world, that Tom’s words have been carved into her stomach for all to see. She can still feel the heat on her cheeks as she moves mindlessly through the halls, her bare feet silent across the carpets. For the first time she can remember the eyes of her ancestors in their portraits feel accusatory, as if she is under attack from their silent judgement, never mind that most of them are still asleep in their frames.

 _Why_ had her father chosen this exact moment to return Florence moans silently to herself, running both hands through her hair in an attempt to tame it. She felt anxious and jittery, as if some part of her mind had been left in the small library with Tom, ensconced within his knowing grasp. How had he known to touch her like that? Where to place his hands and his fingers and his mouth in order to make Florence forget her name? Within her chest, her heart was still hammering, like she had outrun a stampede of horses. Perhaps it was for the best they’d been forced to stop – Tom already had her heart, how much more could she give him before she couldn’t turn back?

Yet as she sprints down the stairs two at a time, the memory of his midnight eyes blown wide with desire sends longing coiling within her so overpowering she almost stumbles and falls down the stairs.

“Woah there,” Albion says, catching her wrist as he appears beside her. “Felt Dad arrive did you?”

“Yeah,” Florence pants, thankful that her father’s presence was an acceptable excuse for why she looked so unsettled. “Did you just wake up?”

“I was in bed still when I felt the wards go off,” he explains, grinning savagely as Florence glances at his bare chest and long sleeping pants.

“Mom won’t like that.”

“Good thing we’re going to greet Dad.”

They both take the last flight of stairs at top speed, running a quarter of the way around the family heart tree and then dive down the main corridor towards the front doors. Albion lifts his hand to push them open but Florence has already murmured under her breath in Cherokee and the home has responded to her magic, the doors flinging open on their own.

Clifford Allman is standing with his back to them, hands shoved into jean pockets, surveying the property he’d been born, raised, and worked upon. At the sound of the doors opening, he turned to look over his shoulder, weather worn bronzed skin splitting into an easy smile, one that seems to grip Florence’s gut like a vice. _Dad_ she thinks, moving through a trance into his waiting embrace, the familiar smell of dirt and smoke washing over her as he pulls her into a hug.

“Florie,” he mumbles through his smile, one hand patting the back of her head as she squeezes him tight. “Not so hard now. I’m an old man.”

Florence releases him a moment later, and Clifford turns to embrace Albion, clapping his eldest child on the back with a thunderous smile.

“Alb, there was no need to get so dressed up for me,” he says with a chuckle. Albion grins in return.

“How was the trip?” Albion asks, leaning against the railing as all three of them turn to look out over the fields. Clifford is wearing a pair of worn leather boots, jeans with fraying edges, and a sweat stained button down that make him appear as much a part of the land as the home and vegetation itself.

“Not bad. I meant to be home yesterday, but we had some trouble unloading the latest shipment.”

“Grindelwald?” Florence breathes, unable to stifle the fear that slips through her chest like a shard of glass. Clifford’s brown eyes soften as they observe her, eyes that are her own and Albion’s too, but perhaps wiser and kinder with age.

“Now don’t go worrying about me, Florie. I may be old, but I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve yet.”

This does nothing to soothe Florence, but her Dad is saved from a reproachful comment by the arrival of Owen and their Mom.

“Cliff,” Eudora says, and she sweeps her husband into a hug with a quick peck on the lips. Owen shakes his father’s hand without comment, but there is a flash of joy on his austere face before they all gather along the railing. Florence glances around at each face, convinced she may burst with euphoria because they are together again and the world is right.

“Carlton is preparing a late breakfast, I assumed you would be hungry after your travels,” Mrs. Allman explains, clearly thrilled to have her family reunited once more from the small smirk that graces her face.

“Thanks, Dora,” Clifford hums, his soft face warming as he gives his wife a thin lipped smile. They could not be more different, one a socialite, the other slow and steady as a meandering stream, but even Florence could not deny that they seemed made for one another.

“Are your friends awake, Florence?” Her mom asks, turning her dark gaze upon her daughter briefly.

“I don’t know,” she lies, remembering that Tom is upstairs where she left him, perhaps finishing what they started alone. The thought is so wicked and sudden that she does not even have time to blush, her mind screeching to a halt as the image of Tom gripping himself with his pants slug low beneath his hips, head thrown back against the sofa, her name on his lips overwhelms her. _Christ_. Florence had the urge to run upstairs and see if her wandering mind was correct, to watch him fall apart because of what she had done to him.

Eudora frowns, as if disappointed that Florence has not kept detailed tabs on their guests movements, but makes no comment.

“Breakfast is on the back porch, and Albion, dear,” Eudora says with a smile she would never deny her eldest. “Please go put on a shirt.”

They move through the house and seat themselves, listening as Clifford explains the inner workings of his relationship with the British DMLE, the difficulties of brewing concentrate in the more frigid temperatures of England. Lizzie, Philip, and Radella appear at the same time, greeted each with a smile and a nod from Clifford, Tom appearing only a short moment later. He is pressed and polished to perfection, but when his eyes find Florence’s through the sea of people assembled and she can see the fire dancing in his gaze, the smirk that hangs upon his lips. Heat once more coils between her legs. Florence swallows.

“Mr. Allman,” Tom says smoothly, approaching the patriarch of the family with his usual predatory grace. “It’s an honor to meet you.” Florence watches as they shake hands, her father’s face flickering for just a moment as their hands meet, and then he smiles broadly at Tom. The pain within her chest seems to leak away as Tom takes his seat beside her where she can reach for him under the table.

“I do apologize for my late arrival,” Florence’s father says to the newly arrived guests. “Life at the Ministry has been hectic to say the least, I’m sure you can understand.”

“My father says the Ministry’s been in an uproar trying to get Dumbledore to do something about Grindelwald, but he’s hesitant to act,” Lizzie said, pouring herself a cup of tea that Kristofferson had placed on the table between her and Tom. Clifford nods his head, a look of unease passing across his weathered face.

“Yes, so the rumors go. I haven’t met the man, but I’ve read his publications. Brilliant, but facing Grindelwald alone seems like a daunting task for anyone, no matter how sharp their mind.”

Florence considers the energy that seems to hang in the air during her lessons with Dumbledore, the warmth that he exudes. There is a power to it, she knows, and it is not too far of a stretch to consider that Dumbledore was capable of great magic. An angry voice within her calls for her Transfiguration professor’s action immediately if it will take her father out of harm’s way.

“He’s our Transfiguration professor, Dad,” Florence adds. “He’s the one who’s been giving me extra lessons.”

“And how’s that turning out, Florie?” Albion jests, his chestnut eyes flashing wickedly. “Managed to make any magic yet?”

“I’ll have to know I’m progressing quite rapidly,” Florence snaps, her arms folding across her chest. “ _And_ , Tom has taught me how to perform a stunning spell, so be careful what you say to me.”

“You’re teaching her?” Albion asks, his voice a shade deeper, angrier. Florence knows it’s a form of brotherly love that Albion is alarmed by the idea of Tom and Florence in a classroom alone together, but she wants to hex him for even questioning her. Tom was Head Boy, the top student in their year, and he’d never done anything to Florence untoward – with the exception of what had elapsed moments ago in the library, but Florence had _wanted_ that. In fact, he’d gone so far as to say he would fight Death itself for her. What other man would go to that length?

“Indeed,” Tom replies coolly. She can see the flash of red in his eyes, as if Albion questioning his credibility is the highest insult he had ever been afforded. “I was requested by two of her teachers as a result of having the highest marks in the school to provide Florence with additional tutoring.”

“What have you covered?” Asks Owen, his curiosity peaked at the introduction of schoolwork into the conversation. Florence cannot help but notice that both of her parents are observing Tom now, her mother’s face politely composed, her father’s passive but knowing.

“Summoning, warming, and cooling charms. Minor jinxes. Stunning and shields,” Tom rattles off in quick succession, his voice still sharp. Florence wants to intertwine her fingers through his, to run a hand along his shoulders and remove the anger from his posture. _Don’t notice_ she thinks to herself over and over, praying that her mother and father will not see his annoyance with Albion’s questioning – his wounded pride that Florence’s eldest brother did not see him as a worthy teacher. _They need to like you_.

“That’s quite a bit of material,” Owen says, his dark eyes widening slightly. Tom nods in agreement, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“And Dumbledore and I have been progressing through Transfiguration too,” Florence says, removing the attention from the boy beside her.

“Well, let’s see it then.”

Albion is smirking at her, Lizzie too giving a knowing smile that sparkles in her summer blue gaze. Radella looks nervous, as if she’s just missed the subtext of the entire conversation. Beside her, Tom crosses one leg over the other and angles his body to drape a graceful arm over the back of his chair. His face is perfectly composed, but she knows without meeting his eyes that they are burning. One look would surely end her.

“Fine, but you’re an ass, Albion.”

“Language, Florence!” Eudora snaps from the end of the table. Clifford smiles without comment.

Getting to her feet, she approaches the railing and draws her wand from the back of her jean pocket. Closing her eyes, Florence exhales deeply, ridding herself inch by inch of the anxious, gnawing feeling that consumes her each time a member of her family looks at Tom. With immense concentration, she recalls the way rain poured down her face, drenching her clothes on the night she summoned a deluge with Dumbledore. With one final sigh and a whispered word, Florence opened her eyes to find a clear stream of water pouring out of the end of her wand. Turning, she sees several members of her family beaming at her.

“Excellent, Florie,” Owen encourages.

“That’s my girl,” Clifford follows suit, and Florence’s pride flares at the gentility of his voice, the smile that graces her father’s face. Albion is grinning at her, and in a flash, Florence has directed her wand at her caramel haired sibling, dousing him in a flood of water.

The entire table shrieked as water splashed across the tabletop, soaking food and spilling coffee. Eudora was howling for Florence to stop, Philip toppled out of his chair while her Dad remained calmly at the head of the table watching with obvious amusement as Florence attacked her brother.

“You _witch_ ,” Albion shouted, getting to his feet and brushing sopping hair back from his face. Florence had one moment of glorious triumph before Albion had set off sprinting around the table, intent upon catching her and enveloping her in a soaking embrace.

“Albion!” Florence screamed, laughter bubbling in her throat as she turned tail and sprinted down the stairs and across the lawn. “Don’t you dare!”

“I’ll fucking dare,” he shouted back, gaining on her as the ground turned from grass to soil beneath Florence’s bare feet, the sky now streaked with branches of Dittany trees as they passed into a field. Florence dodged left and right around trees, her lungs aching with the echoes of her laughter, with the air that fought its way down her throat. Behind her, Albion had drawn his wand, red jets of light flying past her as he attempted to stun her. Florence throws up a shield charm as Tom has taught her, but her mind is gasping for air and it flickers and dies after the impact of only one stray spell.

“Going to have to be stronger than that,” Albion jeers, but she can hear the laughter in his rolling voice. Florence feels a wrinkle in her mind, as if his words have unlocked something within her. _I am stronger than that_ she thinks, smirking to herself as she ducks behind a tree and begins to double back along an adjoining row.

As she sprints Florence begins to murmur, barely one line into her chant before she can feel the current of energy that is cascading through her – _here_ , upon the land of Adsila, her tongue is a weapon, her mind a wand. Stunning spells are still flying over her shoulder as Florence crosses once more onto the lawn, spinning to face Albion who’s face is pink from running.

Planting her feet, Florence’s palms lift into the air and she once more calls upon the spirits of the air and the sun, compressing the matter around her into a shield. Just before she is cut off from the sound around her, Florence hears her father call:

“Oh, you’ve messed up this time, Alb.”

Florence smirks. _Yes he has._

The next stunning spell her brother throws at her rebounds, nearly hitting him in the chest so that he must throw himself out of the way to avoid his own curse. Umber eyes thrown wide, he grins at her, laughing apparently silently to Florence within her bubble of air.

 _Think_ she commands herself. Tom’s words echo back to her, that she is limited in how she utilizes this magic. That she is capable of so much more. Racking her brains, Florence watches as Albion comes to his feet once more upon the roots of an oak tree. A tree that Florence had nurtured from a sapling, and at once she knows what to do. Her smirk broadens. _For you then, Tom._

The lilt of her song changes, her words faster, more directed. Albion is still flinging hexes at her, unable to penetrate her shield.

 _Tree spirit,_ she calls. _Friend of my heart and of my childhood, root and limb and nut. Steady as time, thrashing as the storm, shade bringer and light drinker, I ask you to GROW._

There is a brief moment where Florence wonders if her words were wrong, but then through the soles of her feet she can feel the ground shudder and the earth explodes. Divots of grass and dirt go flying as thick, brown roots spring from the ground and intertwine around Albion, holding him captive in one place. His wand is sent soaring through the air, knocked from his hand by a stray root.

Florence releases her shield a moment later, her chest heaving as she approaches her brother, giddy with the realization of what she has just done, of the magic she has just reshaped. Florence has never won a duel against either of her brothers, and she’s certainly never used her native magic as a form of offensive attack.

“You look good tied up like that,” Philip teases from the porch. Lizzie’s cool, musical laughter echoes at these words.

“Learned a new trick, haven’t you Florie?” Albion says, but he’s smiling at her as he wrestles against his restraint.

“I’ve never done this before,” she admits, slightly dazed as she lays a hand upon the roots wrapped around her brother. The plant is warm to her touch. They grin at each other, brother to sister, for one moment before the roots slither away and back into the earth. Albion pounces immediately, enveloping Florence in a muddy, watery hug.

“Gotcha in the end,” he mumbles, squeezing her tight and smearing mud and water across her face.

Over her shoulder, Florence can see that her Dad has gotten to his feet, his hand outstretched towards the pair. It was he, she knows, who released Albion, his bronzed face impassive, like a wall she cannot see behind, but she can feel his magic in the air, the heat of Adsila’s teachings humming about her. She scans down the table, ignoring the dark look her mother is sending her to find the one face she seeks above all others.

Tom looks famished, his midnight eyes gleaming in the mid-morning sunlight like sapphires. His hand grips the back of his chair so tight that his knuckles have turned white, his jaw tight enough to snap a shipping mast. Florence smiles at him, and his eyes narrow.

 _It was for you, because of you_ she wants to say, but somehow, she understands she does not need too. Tom already knows this.

.

.

.

Lizzie, Philip, and Radella left the following morning, their trunks carried to the carriage by the family house elves. They bid Eudora and Clifford goodbye in the frame of the main doorway, waving goodbye also to Tom who will not journey with them to Spectre to see them off. Eudora embraces Lizzie like a lost child before inviting all three of them back to stay whenever they visit America next.

“You’re always welcome here, dears,” Eudora chimes, waving to them from the top step.

Albion helps Lizzie into the carriage before sliding in beside her, Owen repeating this motion with a heavily blushing Radella. Philip gives Florence a mock bow, yanking her into the seat next to him as they both snicker at the Allman brother’s displays of Southern, gentlemanly culture.

“Think of me when you kiss that blonde oaf,” Albion says, pressing a kiss to Lizzie’s hand when they reach the portkey point in town nearly half an hour later. The blonde girl rolls her eyes, but blushes all the same.

“You are a sinner, Albion Allman,” Lizzie murmurs, shaking her head.

“Thank you,” he quips in return, releasing her.

Beside the flirting pair, Owen has leaned over to whisper something into Radella’s ear, his abnormally tall frame forced to stoop quite a distance to reach the fairy-like girl’s face. Florence wishes she could hear what he says, but she turns away instead to give her shy brother a moment of peace. He’d never once shown interest in a girl, and Florence certainly wasn’t going to be the one to discourage his actions. She did not, however, miss the folded piece of parchment the Allman middle-child pressed into Radella’s delicate hands.

“Well, I’ll see you after the new year, firstie,” Philip chuckles as he looks between the two pairs before them.

“Thanks for coming, Philip,” Florence whispers, her throat suddenly condensing as the sandy haired boy pulls her into a hug. She presses her face into his neck for a moment before releasing him once more.

“Don’t let Riddle force you into doing too much studying over the holiday. He reads too much for his own good.”

“Hex your father for me,” Florence says, and Philip smiles wider.

After hugs to Lizzie and Radella, Florence watches through teary eyes as her three companions circle around a broken, NoMaj radio, pressing their fingers too it. With a final wave, the portkey glows blue, and then they are gone.

“Ahw, don’t look so distraught, Owen,” Albion says, clapping his brother on the back. “We saw you slip her a note. She’ll be writing to you in no time.”

Owen looks pale, his narrow face gaunt with sadness as if Radella’s absence has taken the sun with it.

“Your friends are lovely, Florence,” Owen says as they get back into the carriage.

“Now back to Mr. too-serious-to-go-hunting,” Albion says, giving Florence a knowing look before leaping into the drivers seat.

“Tom is coming to New York with us?” Owen asks calmly, his face slightly more controlled as they begin to roll through town once more.

“Yes, and I want you two to be nice to him,” Florence says, raising her voice slightly so that Albion can hear.

“You know what idea you’ll be giving Mom by having him come with is,” Albion informs her, glancing over his shoulder at his siblings. “She’s going to consider him a suitor for you with your debut coming up.”

“Who says I didn’t want him to be considered?” Florence responds evenly.

There is a lurching sensation that nearly sends Florence careening into Owen seated across from her as Albion yanks on the reigns. Whirling in his seat, he stands so that he seems to loom over the entire carriage.

“ _What?_ You _want_ him considered? Have you lost your mind Florence? You’re not even seventeen til February and you think this pale, pompous British boy is a possible candidate for marriage?”

Florence gets to her own feet.

“Don’t you start with me Albion! You’ve been in love with Margaret since you were both kids, and it’s not like I’m going to get engaged the month after I debut. I’m not looking to get tied down immediately!”

“Oh, of _course_ you aren’t,” Albion sneers, and his handsome face is distorted in what can only be described as disappointment. “You just dragged this kid all the way from Hogwarts to meet our parents because you’re _uninterested_ in him.”

“I didn’t say I was uninterested!”

Florence felt as if her chest was constricting, a searing pain forming in her side. She didn’t want this conversation to go this way, she didn’t want to scream at Albion or have Owen watch as she attempted to defend the boy that had become her entire world. Florence had wanted Tom to win Albion over with his magical prowess, Owen with his mind, Eudora with his manners, and Clifford with his obvious adoration for Florence. It had seemed to obvious that this was how things would occur when Tom reached America, but he’d been aloof, spending most of his time reading or off exploring the property alone when not with Florence. He’d been short with Margaret and silent at meals and Florence wanted to cry because it _mattered_ to her what her brothers thought about Tom.

“Florence, please sit down and talk to us,” Owen said evenly after a moment, perhaps sensing that his sister was on the verge of tears. After a shaky breath, she complied. “You too, Albion.”

“You want him considered?” Albion repeats, his voice only slightly calmer as he returns to his seat.

“I mean, I don’t know, I suppose so,” Florence says, trying to catch her breath, to play off her feelings for Tom. The look in Albion’s eye told her she was failing.

“Look, I know you don’t like him, Alb,” Florence began again. “But Tom’s taught me so much about magic and he’s got all these interesting ideas about enchantments that I’ve never thought of and…and…” Florence felt herself fumbling for words, her pride flaming along the back of her tongue at the idea of expressing her emotions to her brothers. “And he makes me feel important and I do _really_ like him.”

“You are important, Florence,” Albion says so quietly she thinks she may have imagined it. Florence lifts her gaze from the carriage floor to meet the eyes of her eldest brother. His expression looks pained, as if he’s never seen her before. “You always have been. He’d be an idiot not to see that, and you shouldn’t have needed him to know it.”

“Florence, we just want you to be safe and happy,” Owen continues in the clinical tone she has come to expect from him. It helps to steady the racing in her heart slightly. “We know nothing of this boy, although I must admit I was pleasantly impressed with his mind. He informed me that he’s read several of my publications on metal Transfiguration in _U.S. Transfiguration Weekly_ – on that front I certainly approve.”

Florence wants to laugh because _of course_ Tom would have found her brothers writings and read them all. He was the same boy who’d known what her father did without asking, who researched sources of magic just to understand Florence’s abilities. He’d never hidden how serious he took Florence as a subject of study – it was one of those things which made her hunger for him grow. Owen holds up his finger to silence her as he continues.

“However, while I have no reason to object to Tom as a potential partner for you, we know nothing of his family, and nothing of his career objectives. I would only wish to see you with someone who can provide for you, and we must all, yourself included, consider that he is from London and you from Georgia. Are you prepared for the possibility of living across the ocean from your family? From the farm?”

Florence feels her chest constrict further. She already despises the idea of being ripped from her farm to marry some other Georgian wizard, but what if she did marry Tom and he wanted them to live in England? In that far off land where Adsila’s songs were mere echoes of what they were here.

“And I know you said I’ve been interested in Margaret since we were kids,” Albion interjects, “but as much as you’ll hate me saying this, it’s just different. I’m a guy, and the farm will pass to me. I have money to inherit and a title and I can take care of Margaret once we’re bound.”

“Don’t you think I’ve thought about all of this?” Florence demands of her two brothers, both of who quickly withdraw their gaze from hers. “Despite what _mother_ thinks of me, I’m perfectly aware of the societal expectations for the man I am anticipated to marry. For your information, Tom is an orphan, so I can’t tell you a thing about his family history.”

Albion’s bronzed face flushes slightly at this comment, perhaps the first time he has every displayed embarrassment before Florence. She steamrolls ahead, too frustrated to care.

“And as for his future income, I have no idea what career Tom will likely pursue. My professors seem convinced that he will be Minister for Magic in no time. Whether or not that is the case, he’s extremely bright and has as much chance of making a name for himself as you or Owen,” Florence says, throwing Albion a nasty glare. She cannot calm the thundering in her chest, the energy that seems to race through her nerves. 

“ _And_ ,” Florence says, getting back to her feet, her anger surging to such an extent that she thinks she might accidentally hit one of them. “As for being too young, I’m perfectly aware that for Tom to be deemed an eligible suitor is an uphill battle. The only chance he stands is for my family – which includes you two _buffoons_ – to meet him and form a positive opinion of him long before any offerings of engagement go out in a few years’ time.” Florence is panting now, her words ripping from her tongue in a heat of fury. “So by all means continue to tease me, but I will _not_ stand for either of you ruining his chances, and ruining _my_ chances for possible happiness.”

Both Owen and Albion look like they have been struck by lightning, but Florence is too far gone to care. With a final glare at each of them, she grabs her wand from her back pocket and whirls on the spot, disappearing into the cold grasp of apparition.

Florence reappears at the main entrance of the property, pushing past the gate and storming down the gravel drive, tears falling blindly down her cheeks. She knows that her brothers have only spoken out of genuine love for her, but to attack Tom felt like an attack upon herself – her own judgement. Did they think she did not understood the likelihood, the already narrow chances of Tom being deemed appropriate? How could they possibly understand that one look from him made her feel as if she had just single handedly raised the moon, that his understanding of her native magic had helped her to overcome her inhibitions towards Western spellcasting? And couldn’t they comprehend that she wanted to have her own voice in this decision? That she didn’t want to be given away to the highest bidder or the oldest name?

Her cheeks are stained with tears, the back of her eyes burning as she stumbles up the front steps to her home. From around the corner, a towering figure appears, as if summoned by the sound of her choking sobs. She knows, even through her blurred vision, that it is Tom, drawn to her as he is through some magnetic force.

Florence does not stop for him, even when he calls her name, unable to face him with thoughts of her future – _their_ possible future bouncing around her skull like a maddening game of Quadpot. Tom follows her into the house without question, his pale face fixated upon Florence as she moves past the heart tree and up the stairs. His long, delicate fingers slide into hers as they move, and Florence grips him like a vice, as if she could melt their beings into one.

She drags him up one floor than another, finally leading him down a hallway and peeling back a tapestry of mermaids to reveal a narrow, spiraling staircase which she immediately trundles up. Again, Tom follows without question.

At last they surface in a glass ceilinged room which is just off the central rotunda, a balcony behind a set of French doors leading to the octagonal space at the center of the home. Around them are several telescopes and low cushions for laying upon and viewing the stars. Turning to look at Tom, he seems unsurprised by this room, most likely as a result of earlier discovery during his snooping around the house. Florence swallows, a fresh wave of tears spilling down her face.

He is the first person that has ever been her own, and after only four months of acquaintance, he already teeters on the precipice of being ripped away from her. The fury within her mounts.

“Florence,” Tom repeats, and his voice is tense, like the distant rumbling of thunder before a dreadful Summer storm. His eyes are so blue it causes her physical pain, and not for the last time she wonders how he could have come to mean so much to her in so little time. “What has happened?”

Florence lets out a laugh, low and pitiful that seems to morph into a moan. She knows she must look unhinged – eyes rimmed red from tears, hair wild and astray – yet Tom’s gaze never flickers from her own.

“You are _mine_ , Tom Riddle,” she growls, releasing his hand to fist it in the front of his shirt, shaking him slightly with each word.

Tom takes a step closer to her, his arms raised before him like she is a deer that might bolt, moving slowly before he cups her cheeks in his palms. He searches her face for a hint of what she is thinking, and behind his mask of perfection she can see the unnamed tempest of emotion that is whirling through him. Tom, Florence knew, was most likely going to go on to restructure the laws of magic, and she to be a farmer’s wife – but shouldn’t that decision be theirs? Maybe there was some form of Eden made for the two of them that as of yet could not be seen.

 _He will try to give you the world_.

“As you are mine,” he whispers at last, bending to press his lips once, twice, and a third time to Florence’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter in the books (or this book at least).
> 
> I'm about halfway through chapter 27! My writing speed has been slowing down a bit with starting the new job, so I'm intending to update chapters every few days or so as usual, but just wanted to let you know. I have zero intentions of abandoning this work, so never fear on that front. Also just a friendly reminder that I don't use a Beta. Typically I can look over a chapter for a few days since I am ahead in my writing, but I still notice that I miss so many mistakes. Thank you for your patience with my grammar and such!
> 
> So, so thankful for all of you readers! Feel free to leave your thoughts!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is SO juicy I've been waiting to share it with all of you for so long!!! Midway through chapter 28, so still writing haha. Let me know what you think I was excited about this one:)

**Chapter 25**

“Love her, love her, love her! If she favours you, love her. If she wounds you, love her. If she tears your heart to pieces – and as it gets older and stronger, it will tear deeper – love her, love her, love her!”   
― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Tom had never been one to be affected by tears. Children were always crying in the orphanage where he had been raised. Crying for more food, for stolen and broken toys, for mothers who had never loved them. When he’d come to Hogwarts at the meager age of 12, he’d seen plenty of tears. Quidditch accidents, nervous breakdowns during exams – he’d caused loads of tears much to his own satisfaction. Hell, he hadn’t even flinched when he’d discovered Myrtle Warren’s still warm body with tears drying upon her face.

Yet something inside him seemed to be in agony over the image of Florence’s face composed in complete anguish, as if the sun itself had been extinguished. He could not get the picture out of his mind, nor rid himself of the distress that was still tearing through him much to his chagrin.

 _She’s just a normal girl_ he reminded himself over and over and over again as if somehow the repetition of this would soothe his corrosive mind. But that was the problem – Florence _was_ normal. Sure, she held strong magical potential and came from a long, unbroken line of wealth, but much of that was true for the entirety of Slytherin house. Her pedigree did not take away from the fact that she was an average student at best, she enjoyed menial tasks like horseback riding and listening to music, and she cried like every other silly girl Tom had ever met.

Yet, for all of the behaviors that marked her as ordinary, Tom felt this undeniable attraction to Florence _for_ it, because she treated him as ordinary in return. Never in his entire life had someone laughed at him as much as Florence, shared with him for the simple pleasure of sharing, and challenged him purely because they could. Merlin, she didn’t even know he was the heir of Slytherin and she’d invited him to America just to be with him. She’d fucking read him a book – her _favorite_ book because that was the kind of selfless, common thing Florence wanted to share with him, do _for_ him. He could not remember a time someone had done something for him without the hope of receiving something in return.

Tom blamed his aching chest on these menial acts of kindness. They had addled his brains, the magic of the land and estate altering his sensibilities until all he could see and think of was Florence _fucking_ Allman. All it had taken was a genuine utterance of thanks during their first lesson long ago in September, and he’d been hooked, a fish on a line slowly being reeled in, and now he was caught with no way out.

_You are mine, Tom Riddle._

_Damn_ him and his human weakness for being so affected by her words and her tears. His mother had been weak and she’d died as a result. Tom would never die like that excuse for a witch – he’d already eradicated the muggle weakness from his system by ending the lives of his father’s family, and he’d certainly believed he’d never be fragile like his mother. Yet the idea of _not_ having Florence around to say those things to him seemed equally as monstrous as feeling anything in the first place. He understood in the vaguest of senses that his emotions concerning Florence had expanded beyond his initial curiosity or desire to possess her, emotions that were baser and almost animalistic in how they seemed to flow through him, to move him to think and act in ways he never had before. Florence Allman had arrived in his life, expanding something within him so that it could no longer fit where it once had. The thought was terrifying. With a snarl, he threw the last of his clothes into his trunk.

“Waylon,” he called into the air, his vision flickering crimson. The elf appeared at once.

“Mister Tom,” the elf squeaked with a low bow. “What can Waylon do’s for you?”

“Bring me a pot of tea, and Florence a cup of decaf coffee – cream, no sugar,” Tom instructed. He hadn’t planned on sending anything to Florence, but he had this strange understanding in the back of his mind that she would appreciate it. Tea calmed him, coffee her, and at the end of the day, she was _his_ witch and he simply couldn’t go on debating this madness over something that belonged to him.

“Right away sirs,” the elf agreed, disappearing once more with a _crack_.

It was half an hour later that Tom and Florence were stepping into a roaring fireplace in Clifford Allman’s study with their trunks in hand, flooing to the Allman hunting lodge in New York. The journey was longer than any Tom had taken by floo, and for what felt like full minutes he and Florence spun through nothingness hand in hand before landing in a darkly lit room.

Stepping from the grate, Tom observed the ancient wooden beams that ran across the ceiling, the leather sofa, the various dark wood and onyx surfaces. Several animal heads were mounted to the wall, a large set of antlers reminding him vaguely of the golden horns of Illini.

“I’ll show you to your room,” Florence said, clearly not bothering to wait on her family’s arrival. With a small smirk, Tom tapped both his and her trunks with his wand and allowed them to float along behind them as they moved into the main entrance hall and up the ancient wooden stairway.

“Tell me again why you come here for the holidays?” Tom asks, his eyes tracing up and down Florence’s form as she walks before him, her caramel hair almost golden in the dark space. The second story of the home is colder, as if winter has invaded this upper level of the home, and Tom pulls his cloak around his shoulders. The Allman hunting lodge, which he sees now is more of a hunting mansion, lacks the distinct energy of magic that their estate home held, making the place seem oddly empty and dull after living for nearly two weeks in a home who’s very floorboards sang with enchantment.

“It was my mother’s dad’s place. He left it to her when he died, and my dad likes to come up here for New Years. He likes a snowy holiday, and Albion likes to go fox hunting.”

“Of course he does,” Tom snorts under his breath. Florence whirls around before him so quickly that Tom almost slams into her.

“ _Please_ try and get along with Albion,” she begs, and her eyes are so wide Tom could swim in them. He nods after a moment, echoes of the word _please_ trailing through his brain. Oh how he loved it when she begged, even if he would rather tell Florence that Albion Allman was a washed-up, over-indulged jock who had no business taking over a farm that Florence could run with her pinky finger. Still, she’d said please.

“Alright,” he agrees easily, and she gives him a smile. Again, for what feels like the hundredth time, Tom marvels over the control he can exercise over Florence with only a few words or a look. As they continue down the corridor, he recalls her fight against Albion, how she had wielded her magic to capture her brother. She’d been breathtaking, and the ravenous look on her face had told him that she’d done it for him. Tom wondered how much farther he’d need to push her before he could begin to reveal his ideas to her. He hadn’t forgotten how poorly she’d reacted to his opinions on muggle borns, but if he could only ensnare her further… the possibilities were endless.

“This is your room,” Florence says, stepping through a curved doorway into a darkly paneled wood room with an intricately carved four poster bed with blue velvet draping’s hanging from it. Narrow, paned windows showcased a snow covered lawn, and a fire crackled merrily in the stone hearth, heating the chilled space so that Tom could no longer see his breath while indoors.

“I know it’s not as nice as your other room at my house, but I gave you Adsila’s old quarters there, and unfortunately this is our nicest guest room in New York.”

Tom has to bite his bottom lip to prevent him from saying that he’s accustomed to sharing a room with no less than six others, but almost immediately after this thought fades, he registers that Florence had let him use her great-grandmother’s room back in Georgia.

“You gave me Adsila’s quarters?” He says, smirking slightly at the telltale blush that forms on Florence’s tanned skin.

“I thought you’d like it – the magic feels strongest in that part of the house,” Florence says, her face practically flaming. Tom nods, at once understanding why he struggled to sleep for the first few nights. Part of him wonders if he should thank her, but he thinks better of it in the end. It is another act of kindness from her, one that she does not expect him to return. One she has performed because she can.

“We have an indoor riding ring and you’re coming with me tomorrow,” Florence says with a pitiless smile. “My room is just two doors down the hall, I’m going to go get ready for dinner. I’ll see you in a few.”

She turns to leave, but upon second thought moves across the room to grab his face and press a chaste kiss upon his lips, rising upon her tippy toes so that a featherlight brush of her skin against his can occur. For one heart wrenching second, their faces are inches apart, and then she is gone again and Tom must hang his suits for a week’s worth of dinner parties with only the Allman family for company. His jaw tingles where she held him long after she has disappeared from his quarters.

.

.

.

Dinner without his fellow Hogwarts students is drastically different, so much so that not even Florence’s presence beside him at the darkly stained oak table can erase the tension hanging in the air like a low cloud. Tom can feel the stares of each of the Allmans in turn, the piercing gaze of Eudora, the poorly disguised loathing of Albion, the mild curiosity from Owen. Yet it is the shadowed, carefully managed stare of Clifford which sends spirals running down Tom’s back, as if the chestnut eyes of the Allman patriarch have the uncanny ability of Florence to peel him apart, to strip away the mask which he is accustomed to wearing.

“Where in London do you live, Tom?” Eudora asks as the house elves bring out their entrees, because _of course_ the Allman family wouldn’t travel without their pack of serving creatures. Her voice is light, but Tom knows a prying question when it is presented, and the idea drives into his head with irritation.

“Near Diagon Alley, if you’re familiar with the city,” he offers without mentioning the orphanage. He’s managed not to reveal anything about himself during the prior two weeks in Georgia, but as the sole point of focus, Tom has an itching feeling his luck is about to end.

“Lovely, and what do your parents do?” She continues in the same sickly, innocent voice. Her dark eyes are fixed upon him from the head of the table, and Tom forces himself to smile at her. Toothless and ingenuine, but women everywhere have fallen for the same look and Eudora Allman will be the same.

“Unfortunately ma’am, I was raised in an orphanage. My mother died in childbirth, and I only met my father briefly upon occasion before he too passed.”

Tom works to keep his voice cool, but mentioning his parents raises within him the old bitterness, his anger at their failures, their incompetency’s. What his life could have been had the Gaunts not squandered their gold, had his mother not drugged and raped a disgusting muggle whelp… He imagines his life might have been similar to Florence’s, raised in a home that reeked of magic, his plans for power and prestige already further along, no longer reliant on the good will of British pure blood families looking to ingratiate themselves too him.

“Oh, but that’s awful!” Eudora exclaims, her eyes widening. Tom wonders if she is referencing poverty or his loss of parentage. “How incredible then that you have been so successful at Hogwarts. Lizzie mentioned you were Head Boy.”

“I have been fortunate to study under excellent teachers, and born with an inherent work ethic which has taken me far,” Tom says quietly, not allowing his gaze to drop from Eudora’s. Her skin is olive, slightly paler than that of her husband as if hinting that she spent less time in the sun. She has the same outspoken nature as her daughter which has grown from a lifetime of privilege affording her the ability to speak her mind, but she lacks Florence’s soft edges, the frequent smiles and peals of laughter. Tom does not like her, but this is not surprise. Tom likes no one – except for Florence, and that was perhaps more obsession than anything.

“Like I said,” Florence pipes up beside him, her voice dry from lack of use. Tom turns to watch her speak, noting her slightly fevered appearance – wan skin, darting eyes. He swallows the urge to touch her. “Tom has top marks in all of our classes at Hogwarts, that’s why our professors wanted him to teach me additional lessons.”

“I pulled those texts you mentioned, Tom,” Owen intercedes, and Tom turns to see that the boy’s eyes are flickering from his own face to Florence’s. Beside Tom, Florence seems to loosen slightly. “Feel free to peruse them this week and take any of them back to Hogwarts. Florence can mail them to me when you are finished.”

“Thank you.”

Tom inclines his head at the young scholar, but he cannot shake the feeling that he is under a microscope, burning under each individual lens. Beneath the table, Florence’s leg brushes against his, as if she is trying to comfort him. He does not understand her nerves, but nor does he push away the contact. Glancing at her, he finds the welcome relief of her eyes upon his, her lips upturned into an easy smile that twists his innards and warms that cavity in his chest. For a moment they stare, Tom’s own mouth threatening to upturn into a grin, and then she shifts and her eyes find Albion’s, and Tom’s gaze flounders for a moment before landing upon the Allman patriarch.

Clifford Allman was powerful. Tom had felt his magic like a tempest when they’d shook hands – his skin tingling with the residue that only enchantment could leave. He too sang of land magic, of the wildness within Florence, but also of mastery and control. _A well ruled mind_ Tom knew as he met the father’s expectant gaze.

If Florence’s eyes were like coming home, Clifford’s were like being thrown out to sea. The same shape and color of his daughter, but clouded and distant and lacking that specific heat that Florence seemed to emit. It shook him, to see the gaze he had come to claim peering through him with such indifference, and it made Tom’s fists clench with fury at his own weakness.

“Is this your first time leaving England, Tom?” The father asks, his voice crackling like dry wood on a fire. Tom feels his chest tighten at the unwelcome reminder of his station, intentional or not.

“Yes sir,” Tom replies. “I was very grateful for Florence’s invitation.”

Grateful was a stretch. She was _his_ – she _should_ invite him to her home. All the same, he was happy to have seen where she was from, to understand the source of her power, to know her better than before.

“Will you travel after you leave Hogwarts?”

Tom feels a tendril of unease pass through him, unsure what he could have done in his one day existing in the same space as Clifford Allman to alert him to his plans. Tom had never struggled to keep his ideas, his goals, silent. Certainly Florence didn’t know anything about what he intended – that was on purpose.

“I would like to, Sir,” Tom eventually replies, fighting to keep his voice light. He can feel Florence staring at him, listening for the message within his words. He would have liked to tell her on his own terms, and so he must tread carefully. “There is still so much of the magical world I would like to see.”

Clifford Allman nods at this, as if somehow this sparse answer has confirmed something. Tom’s vision flickers crimson. _Who is this man to presume anything of me?_ Under the table, his hand grasps his thigh until his nails leave crescents on his skin through his pants.

“And after, will you seek work in England?” Eudora continues, picking up the baton where Clifford left it.

“Yes ma’am, I would assume so.”

_I will establish hold over all of wizarding Britain. I will carve my name into the stone, cast out those unworthy, and establish a rule the likes of which witches and wizards have never seen._

“A ministry job?”

“Certainly a consideration,” Tom smirks at Eudora. He will never work for that useless farce of an institution, but like every pure blooded family in England he’s ensnared, sometimes it’s easier to lie.

“You’ll have to keep us abreast of your decisions, Tom. A young man like you? A very promising future indeed,” Eudora chimes, and Tom can tell he’s passed some kind of test, but only narrowly from the dark look on Albion’s face. Beside him, Florence lets out a small sigh of air that she has been holding.

“Can we be excused?” Florence asks almost immediately, laying her napkin on the table as if prepared to spring to her feet at any moment. “I don’t want dessert, and I’d like to show Tom around the house.”

“You want to give him a tour at 9:30?” Her mother asks. “You know the lighting is much better in the morning if he really wants to see the home.” She speaks as if Florence has lost her mind, a disappointment to every teaching Eudora has attempted to press upon her daughter.

“We’re going riding in the morning,” Florence practically growls, and Tom has to repress a smirk because he _loves_ when she is angry. “Please, may we be excused?”

“Of course, dear,” Eudora says in a clipped tone that suggests she is anything but pleased. Florence is on her feet at once, staring at him expectantly.

“Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Allman,” Tom smiles at her, never one to forget his manners even with an impatient Florence standing behind him.

“I left something for you on your bed, Florie,” Albion calls after her. Tom glances at the eldest child, unable to decipher the suddenly blank look on his face. Yet the chestnut eyes of Albion tighten slightly when they land on Tom, and again he must refrain from cursing the young man on the spot because no one should ever look at him like that.

“Thanks, Alb,” Florence whispers, and she takes Tom’s hand and practically pulls him from the dining room before anyone else can speak to them.

“Where are you dragging me now?” Tom demands, but he feels slightly amused as he pulls Florence to his side where he can wrap an arm around her shoulders. She is shaking slightly, but whether in excitement or nerves he cannot tell. He likes that she always has something to show him, something new to share instead of being incessantly dull like all other people their age.

“I wrote to Albion a few weeks ago to ask him to buy me something, but I completely forgot about it until dinner. I just hope we’re not too late,” Florence says, her arm entangling around his torso so that they are pressed against one another as they walk.

“Another surprise then?” He thinks of Illini, of her shield, of every time she has come to him with fire in her eyes, and electricity seems to charge through him in anticipation.

“Another surprise,” she confirms, dragging him past his own room and two doors down into a pale room with a large vanity and plush blue chairs. Another door leads off to what Tom assumes must be Florence’s bedroom.

She lets go of Tom and runs through this second door where moments later she lets out a small shriek. Before he can go after her, she has reappeared in the sitting room waving two pieces of paper in her hand, caramel hair flowing behind her as she throws himself into his arms.

Tom has no idea what is happening, but he doesn’t question it as Florence’s legs lock around his hips and her fingers intertwine with his hair and their lips meet in with that earth shattering perfection he has come to live for. She tastes like wine as her tongue forces its way into his mouth, her teeth crashing into his with the potency of her attack. Tom’s hand snakes around her waist, the other searching for the door and slamming it closed where he can press her body against the wooden surface, pinning her beneath him.

“Florence,” Tom whispers against her lips, his mouth trailing down to the delicate skin of her neck, smirking against her as her head falls to the side to provide him better access to her. He knows she has something for him, but right now his mind feels uniquely one dimensional, his only goal to peel her out of the simple black dress she is wearing and to have her in every way a man can have a woman. To pen his name into her veins.

“ _Tom_ ,” she moans, and he has never loved his simple, muggle name, but she says it like a lifeline and for the first time in his life he wants to hear it over and over and over again.

He’s moving without thinking, sports coat falling to the floor as his finger’s travel to the front of her dress, unbuttoning the silk fabric of Florence’s dress to reveal flashes of bronzed skin, the curved black line of her bra. Tom is panting into her shoulder now, his trousers suddenly tight and uncomfortable as he scrabbles with the front of her dress, the shaking in his fingers matched by Florence who is suddenly tugging at the front of his shirt with abandon. The garment at last falls from her form, and Tom moves his mouth to her shoulder, her collarbone, his teeth scrapping her skin in such a manner that small gasps escape from her lips. The sound drives him mad.

“ _Tom, please_ ,” her voice is weaker and he has no idea what she wants, only that it is _him_ and he is responsible for reducing her to nothingness and he feels strong and terrified and so _much_ that breathing has become difficult. His fingers trace down her sides, her body shivering under his touch until he feels the line of her knickers, thin, flimsy material that can only be lace. Without pretense he moves to cup her, moaning audibly into her neck when his hand finds moisture there. _Mine_ he thinks, squeezing until her head falls back against the door, a whimper sliding from her lips. _Mine._

Tom doesn’t know how to progress, only that he wants her, and judging from the wet spot between her legs, Florence wants him too. But before he can rip away the final barrier between them, Florence had released her bear like hold on his neck and placed her hands on his shoulders, pushing him slightly.

“Tom,” she pants, and her voice has regained some of his strength. “Tom, I’m so sorry, but we don’t have a lot of time if we’re going to make it, and I still need to get dressed.”

He has no idea what she is talking about, especially considering he has just gotten her _undressed_. Lifting his face from her shoulder, Tom pressed his chin to her sternum, staring up into Florence’s face which is flushed and hooded. With a smirk, he tightens the hand cupping her sex again, this time watching as her eyelids flutter, her bottom lip is sucked between her teeth, memorizing the signs of her pleasure.

“I know that you want this,” he taunts, his hand tracing up and down the fabric between her legs, the resulting quiver in her thighs the only response Tom needs.

“Of course I do,” she breathes, leaning down to brush her lips against his. Again he can taste the wine on her tongue. “But I don’t want to rush _this_ ,” she whispers against his own lips, her mouth peeling into that familiar smile. “And these tickets are only for tonight.”

“Tickets?” Tom asks, finally distracted as he removes his hand from between her thighs and slides it around her waist to the small of her back. The shiver that passes through her intoxicates him.

“For the New York Philharmonic. They’re playing Dvorák’s 9thtonight – I wanted to take you as a Christmas present.”

A Christmas present. He’d received plenty of them over the years, certainly more in recent history as various pure bloods across the United Kingdom attempted to ingratiate themselves to him, yet pressed against Florence as he is, Tom cannot recall a time when he’d ever cared for the actual _act_ of giving. He knows subconsciously his hands have tightened around her waist, but his mind has gone oddly blank, as if every thought going through his mind has been silenced at once.

“Isn’t going to the symphony a muggle tradition?” He asks without thinking. Florence’s smile fades slightly, her legs slipping from around his waist as she slides to stand before him, somehow still commanding even dressed only in her underwear, pressed between himself and the wall.

“Yes, but you know I love music, and I thought –”

“What do I wear?” Tom interrupts, unable to tear his eyes away from her face, the perfect bend in her lips that he wants to bite. She beams at him.

“You’ll need a tux. I had Waylon bring one from our estate, he should have hung it in your wardrobe.”

“I’ll go change then, shall I?” Tom states, a fear bubbling within him because he still does not know why his mind has seemed to calm, why he cannot seem to look away from her. Florence blushes and bites the lip he wants to pull between his teeth.

“No,” she murmurs. “Don’t go… just have Cash bring it here. And a bottle of wine too please.”

And so they get ready together, an act strangely more intimate than any other moment they have shared. Florence does not bother to put her dress back on, nor Tom his sports coat, instead draping the jacket over the back of a chair as Florence throws open her closet and begins to sift through various gowns. Without meaning too, Tom stands behind her, tracing his knuckles along the exposed ridge of her back, the top of her knickers which he can now see are a thin black lace, along each line of her ribs. The moon highlights each curve of her figure, the spaces of skin Tom has still yet to claim, like territories waiting to join his ever expanding empire.

He watches her dress with a lump in his throat and a heaviness upon his chest because any two _average_ humans can share a moment in desire, but Florence has instead invited him into her most private circle, to see her as she is before fabric and makeup transform her from a woman into a goddess. He does not try to touch her as she removes her bra, instead taking the pale blue dress she has handed him and holding it open as she steps into the form-fitting gown. Her hands rest upon his shoulders as he pulls the dress up past her hips, sliding the thin straps along her arms and shoulders until her chest is covered too, their eyes meeting in the moonlight. Tom forces himself to swallow the words he wants to say, terrified by their meaning.

“Zip me up?” She whispers, turning to the side. Again Tom swallows his answer, electing to nod silently as his fingers reach for the small piece of metal and sealing her body within the blue sheath of fabric.

Cash appears a moment later with a simple black tuxedo hanging from a rack and a tray of wine glasses. Florence accepts hers and the bottle before settling into one of the armchairs. One of the female house elves appears too, clutching a box of makeup and pins and perfume, stepping onto a small stool as she begins to apply different items to Florence’s skin and hair.

Tom doesn’t bother to turn away as he changes, instead meeting Florence’s heated gaze as he finishes her work of unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his narrow, porcelain chest to her. He likewise steps out of his pants without blinking, casting both items onto the chair with his sportscoat. Florence’s eyes flicker to his boxers, and Tom feels a stirring between his legs which he attempts to ignore.

With the help of Cash and the arrival of Waylon, Tom makes quick work of dressing, the elves slipping on polished shoes, adjusting the red carnation on his lapel, and wrapping a white scarf around his shoulders before they declare him worthy. The last elf, who has finished with Florence, runs a brush through his hair and declares him perfect.

“I suppose it may be odd to say this, but you’re ungodly beautiful,” Florence says, her mouth slightly ajar as her umber gaze traces up and down his body. Tom reaches for her, lifting Florence from her seat so that he can press his lips to her temple, unsure if he’s ever truly cared what anyone thought of his appearance until now.

“I could say the same for you,” he murmurs into her skin, smirking at the intake of breath he hears. “You are divine, Florence Allman, and it is a good thing we have a schedule to keep and I feel as I do about appointments, otherwise I would tear that dress down the middle _and_ your knickers with it and have you against every surface in this room.”

“You’re wicked, Tom Riddle.”

“Of course,” he agrees, allowing his hands to smother her waist. He has so many things he wants to ask her – why her parents seemed intent upon grilling him this evening, what – if anything – she can teach him about native magic, why she cares so incessantly about Mudbloods, if she will stand beside him through eternity, and yet in the moment even these questions which weigh constantly upon his mind seem insignificant. It’s all insignificant compared to Florence.

“We’ve got about fifteen minutes to drink before we’ll floo. There is a wizarding entrance in Carnegie Hall for witches and wizards that want to attend events,” she explains, taking a long sip from her glass of wine. Tom nods and downs his own glass.

Tom watches with some amusement, his mind pleasantly empty from everything except for Florence – the curl of her hair, the exposed triangle of skin across her chest, the floral scent that one of the house elves has sprayed on her. He pulls her into his lap in a chair beside the fire where one hand can grasp her thigh, the other can wrap around her waist, and his lips can find the skin of her neck. Florence giggles and shivers as he touches her, her face growing steadily redder with each ministration and glass of wine. Tom has half a mind to tell her to forget the Symphony, but he knows she loves music, and a secretive, rarely access part of him wants to sit and watch her face as the melody washes over her, like he did on Samhain with the moon painting her face and her hand shielded in his.

“We need to go, sinnerman,” Florence whispers too soon, grasping his chin between her forefinger and thumb so that she can angle his face for a light kiss. Tom’s hand sinks into her hip.

“Not angel tonight?” He asks, and with a slight sense of horror, he realizes he is participating in teasing and small talk, acts he has usually considered himself above.

“With what you’ve threatened to do to me?” She murmurs, sculpted brows shooting up her face in a mockery of him. “I think not.”

“Continue to tease me and I’ll make good on my word,” Tom whispers back, pressing his lips to her sternum and pulling her tight against him where he knows she can feel the hardness between his legs. If she’s embarrassed by it, she makes no sign.

Carnegie hall is unlike anywhere he has ever been. Tom offers Florence, who is somewhat unsteady on her feet from all of the wine, his arm, glaring at each passerby who’s sight lingers for too long on Florence’s blue clad figure. Muggles swarm the entrance around them, each dressed in long gowns and tuxedo’s, charging the drink booth for last minute offerings, feather hats and beaded purses glistening in the gas lamps. The wizarding entrance was disguised as a supply closet, and a smartly dressed goblin peers through a peephole before sending groups through one at a time. There is a booth selling firewhisky and elven wine, and Florence purchases a bulletin and two glasses of champagne.

“My favorite,” she admits with a small giggle, handing him a flute before pulling his face down to hers and kissing him lightly. He wonders if he will ever tire of the ecstasy of magic that passes through him whenever their lips meet, or if it will be like this for the rest of time?

Their seats are in the dead center of the main floor – what Florence has paid for them Tom cannot imagine, but he is grateful when they are seated in their individual red velvet chairs and he no longer feels the need to hex the disgusting muggle filth which deems itself worthy of looking at Florence. Florence who is perhaps even more radiant than she was on Samhain because now Tom knows she cares for him – Illini had confirmed it, and his possession of her surely made her all the more beautiful?

“If only we weren’t in public,” Tom whispers into her ear suggestively, wrapping an arm around the back of her chair and crossing his legs so that he is partially facing her. Florence flushes.

“This is one of my favorite compositions,” Florence informs him, turning so that her gaze meets his. Tom has the strange urge to count the freckles that run across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. “It’s by a European composer that came to America and was astounded by all the things he’d seen.”

“A little on the nose, Florence,” Tom replies, raising his own brow at her. Florence’s jaw tightens with the pride that always lurks beneath her words.

“Oh, angel,” she whispers, moving her face to hover only spaces from his. The lights around them dim and the crowd lets out a smattering of applause as a man – the conductor – moves out onto the stage. “You and I both know it’s true.” She smirks before pulling away and turning to look at the stage, leaving Tom wanting for the curve of her lips against his own.

He does not know if he watches the actual symphony for more than a few moments. How can he when Florence’s face is like the North star calling to guide him home? The opening notes of the first movement open slow like the gentle rolling of the hills in Georgia, quickly eviscerated by the thunder of horns and percussion which is like a magic Tom has never experienced before. And yet it all pales – the music, the performance hall, even the flowing alcohol which warms his system – to the young woman ensconced beside him. Her mouth hangs open, tongue wetting her lips ever few moments, her hand digging into his thigh with each surge of music. He can see the tears that well in her eyes, blurring their perfect hue, and yet Tom cannot even ask why this music reduces her to tears because he is too hypnotized by the joy in her expression, drunk on what they have shared this night, the thought that he wants this for the rest of eternity.

Tom stares at Florence as tears spill down her cheeks – tears of joy at something beautiful that Tom cannot understand because he is certain that _she_ is the only thing he will ever think is beautiful, and he knows with absolute certainty that he would burn the world for her because he doesn’t care that the music is swelling or that he is in a muggle hall, only that he is here beside her with Florence looking as she does. Florence who has restructured the very value of the world, who reads him stories and takes long walks and who laughs and smiles at everything he says even when he’s not funny and he’s not happy. Florence, who does not fit into any of his life plans, but for whom he will redefine everything in order to have her along with him as he rises to power.

The symphony ends and he kisses her during the multiple rounds of applause as if he is a starved man who has found an oasis in the Sahara. He can taste the salt of her tears, the sugar of champagne, and the honey that is entirely Florence, and Tom is sure that he must be drunk because he’s never felt so reckless in his life.

They don’t speak as they return to the floo, stepping into the flames and reappearing in Florence’s sitting room, the clock on the wall reading just past midnight. He is relieved when she asks him to stay, the idea of being separated from her now preposterous. They undress each other with something nearing reverence, and then both clad only in their underwear, they slip under the covers of Florence’s bed, wrapped around each other like devil’s snare.

Florence’s drifts into sleep almost at once, leaving Tom’s mind to grapple with what has passed between them, those mountainous things that remain unsaid, and that place in his chest she has mastered and marked solely as her own. Pulling himself closer to Florence, Tom inserts one leg between hers and wraps an arm around her figure before allowing the steady rise and fall of her chest to drag him likewise into dreams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom...participating in muggle traditions...for Florence? My heart swells so much it could burst. Thanks for reading everyone Xx


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter in America (for now at least) ! I feel like we've spent a lot of time here, so it will be good to transition back to Hogwarts. Thank you as always to those people who take time out of their day to read my story and to comment or kudos or leave any kind of feedback - YOU are the type of person that makes my world go round:)
> 
> Also, I'd just like to reiterate that I have no (absolutely none) idea how to write smut and also I'm flying beta-less, so please forgive me as I try and figure this out.
> 
> You guys are the best!

**Chapter 26**

“We are all here, on this earth for only one go around. And everyone thinks their purpose is to just find their passion. But perhaps our purpose is to find what other people need.”   
― Meg Wolitzer, The Interestings

When Florence wakes in the morning, she is too warm, encapsulated in a cage of arms and legs and blankets heated by a body that is not her own. Her eyes flicker open to find the steady rising and fall of Tom’s chest, his mouth parted slightly in sleep, the soft skin of his eyelids glistening in the early morning light like strips of silk that she immediately and overwhelmingly has the urge to run her fingers across.

It is almost too much, to wake beside him. Despite her moniker for him, Florence has never actually thought Tom embodies what it means to be an angel, unless perhaps a fallen one – he has too much rigidness, too much anger, is too willing to utilize dark magic. He thinks people born to NoMajs and even his own parents are nothing more than dust. But looking at him now, Florence cannot think of anything beyond the fact that he is _stunning_ and he is hers and she never wants him to wake because it would mean leaving this shared moment they exist in now.

Her dream was not to come true. She has just enough time to lock away the image of undeniable softness on his features before he flutters to life, the arm wrapped around Florence’s waist drawing her in, his brow wrinkling as Florence watches midnight eyes bloom into the day. She always finds his gaze enticing, but cocooned beside him in a nest of sheets and quilts, Florence thinks his eyes have never been so clear, his face so gentle.

“Happy Birthday, Tom,” Florence murmurs, unable to wait long enough to even wish him good morning. The corners of his lips turn down into a small frown, but with his hair mussed at odd angles from sleep and his face still slack with the residue of slumber, his grimace can be described as nothing but endearing.

“How did you know it was my birthday?” He mumbles, his voice thick and rumbling, the arm around her waist tightening as he props himself up on his elbow and proceeds to bury his face in Florence’s neck. Without thinking, her hand cups the back of his head, fingers toying with strands of dark chocolate curls and nails raking at his scalp. When he groans into her skin, goosebumps rise across every inch of her being, heat pooling between her legs.

“I asked Pyrrhus before we left. Seems only fair that I get to ask questions about you since you’ve been researching my family for months,” Florence teases, her breath hitching slightly as she feels his mouth latch on to the pulse in her throat, his tongue soft against her skin. Surely it is too early to be this dizzy from Tom’s touch?

“I don’t like my birthday,” he whispers into her skin, and Florence wishes she could see his face so that she could peer behind his mask, but he is too busy digging his fingers into her side and marking her with his teeth to grace her gaze with his own.

 _Why not_ she wants to ask, but as his hand comes to rest on her hip, Florence remembers his words. _They were inconsequential, in the end_. His own parents, worthless and glib and of course Tom wouldn’t want to celebrate a day that reminded him of those people he deemed valueless. Pity stirs within her, and the hand cradling his head tightens for a moment.

“Well I do like birthdays, and I needed to know yours so I could get you a gift,” Florence challenges. It feels like second nature, to wake beside Tom, to test him with a verbal spar over something so menial.

“I thought the concert was my gift?” Tom props himself up on his elbow again so that he can smirk at her, a haughty expression that reminds her of their charms and defense lessons, of moments where he berates her for her magical incompetence.

“It was _one_ gift,” Florence corrects, tracing her hand around from his neck to his jaw, allowing the pads of her fingers to press into the sharpest angles of his face. “This is another. And besides, you didn’t even watch the symphony.”

“True, but I think you will find I had an enjoyable evening all the same.”

Tom has rare moments of brutal honesty that cannot help but move her, and Florence feels herself smiling and blushing in tandem. The hand on her hip tightens for a moment before he rolls onto his back and pulls Florence with him, her head resting on his shoulder, legs still tangled beneath the covers.

“So you’re seventeen?” Florence asks, trailing a finger down his chest, hypnotized by her ability to touch him, to feel the give of his skin against hers.

“Eighteen,” he corrects.

“So you can already apparate?”

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Florence demands, affronted that he would keep such a skill from her, although why she’s surprised he can perform any form of magic she does not know. Tom had conjured a dragon from fire, something as common as apparition was probably like breathing to him.

“As I recall, you did not tell me that you could apparate either,” Tom counters, nails digging into the flesh of her back so that Florence shivers. It’s hard to focus so close to him, the clean scent that he carries washing over her with each breath. Each track of his hand makes it harder still.

“I turned seventeen this summer,” Florence tells him.

“I know,” he murmurs into her hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “July 31st.”

Florence wants to ask how he knows this, but decides against it. In the end it doesn’t matter. She loves the way he attempts to nest into her life, seeing those things about her no one does.

“So what did you get me?”

Tom’s voice has a depth too it, a quiver that she recognizes as excitement. She knows without asking that Tom loves presents, recalling the way his eyes seem to ignite with each gift from passing Slytherins. Florence sits up and presses her lips momentarily against his and then rolls away before Tom can fully trap her in his arms. When she glances over her shoulder at him, a true frown has marred his handsome features. Florence laughs before she can stop herself, and Tom’s resulting blush which ever so slightly highlights his cheekbones makes everything inside of her go tense and warm.

Moving across the floor to her trunk, Florence lifts the lid and searches through her school things until she spots the emerald wrapped box with the simple black ribbon. Slytherin colors she’d directed Roseanne to use when assembling the package. There is a tremor of fear that grips her heart, a childish worry that Tom won’t _like_ what she’s selected for him. She cannot remember the last time she gave this much consideration to a gift, but turning back to see Tom strewn across her bed, one hand resting on his stomach, the sheets tangled around his legs, Florence feels her mouth dry and her pulse quicken. _Ungodly beautiful_ she’d called him last night, but even now in nothing more than his boxers, hair askew and face flushed in anticipation, Florence could not deny the truth of it. _Beautiful and strong and challenging and intelligent_ and probably a million other things she wants to spend the rest of her life discovering.

Swallowing her nerves, Florence moves back across her room towards him, clambering onto the bed and passing him the box without comment. Tom’s eyes, midnight and overwhelming, crinkle in the corner in one of those rare smiles that seems to freeze time. He reaches for her instead of attacking the present, tucking her into his side where her arms can snake around his torso and he can drape the quilt over her once more before he turns to his gift.

The ribbon and paper fall away quickly, shortly followed by the lid which Tom tosses carelessly to the side. Florence knows she’s not breathing as she watches him lift the small, green velvet pouch at the top of the box. Tugging at the drawstring, there is a wink of silver and a crystal vial of silvery-sage liquid falls into Tom’s palm.

“Dittany Concentrate,” he purrs, holding the concoction up to the light to admire the swirling potion in the early morning sun.

“It’s from the batch you made – we left it in the Potions Laboratory.”

“As I recall, I was distracted,” Tom accuses, his midnight eyes falling to Florence’s with all the impact of a comet, rattling everything inside of her until she can’t breathe. Her cheeks burn, as does her pride, as always horrified by the way his words can stir reactions from Florence with so little effort. It was galling, really.

“Keep going, there’s more,” Florence commands, pressing her cheek against his chest and tightening her grip on him as encouragement. She has to forcibly shove away the memory of Tom in a sweat soaked button down and old jeans, wreathed in the smoke of the brewing potion so that she will not miss Tom opening his next gift.

He lifts the tissue paper – green of course – to reveal a moss colored coat with brass snaps and a brown corduroy collar. Tom’s eyes widen slightly as he pulls the garment from the box, a hungry expression upon his face. It was this part of the gift she had worried herself the most over – a traditional hunting jacket, a tangible sign of wealth and affluence and all of the things Tom didn’t have, but Florence had always thought them becoming on the men in her life and the image of Tom dressed in such a coat had awoken her sweating and panting from more than one dream. She squirms now beside him, already imagining the green against his porcelain skin, the cut of the jacket highlighting his narrow, towering frame.

“Are you planning on taking me hunting sometime?” Tom asks, his voice muffled slightly as he runs a delicate finger down the waxed cotton surface, flipping open the garment to reveal the tartan pattern inside.

“No,” Florence whispers, burying her face further into his skin, horrified that she will have to explain herself. “I…um…. Thought it would look good on you. A lot of the boys in Spectre wear them, and I don’t know, I just like them on guys?”

Tom is silent, but when his hand closes around her hair and tilts her head back from his shoulder, she can see that he is smirking at her with cruel understanding. Their faces are inches apart, and Florence finds her eyes drawn to the pale line of sky blue that rims Tom’s pupils – pupils which are wide and cavernous with desire. She recognized the look on his face from the night before when he’d had her pinned to the door, and it did nothing now to cool the heat building within her.

“You mean to tell me,” he murmurs, his voice sin incarnate. “That you bought me clothes you’d like to rip off of me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Florence whispers in response, but even she can hear the breathiness of her voice. Tom smirk deepens, and they are now millimeters apart.

“I believe it is you who is doing the flattering, Florence.”

His kiss is lethal, silencing any protest she might have made as he presses her into the bed. Their lips clash, teeth scraping against one another, tongues pushing for control as Tom rolls onto her, one leg driving between her thighs. When his fingers slide beneath her bra, a moan escapes from her throat that he swallows with ease, almost as if he’d been waiting for the sound, desperate to break the tension roaring between them.

Florence feels like she is floating, trapped in a hazy state of pleasure where Tom is not close enough, _never_ close enough, his fingers and lips and tongue playing her body like the conductor of the New York Philharmonic the night before. Magic explodes across her skin with each touch, her back arching when his mouth closes over her nipple and he sucks, _hard_ , tongue circling the sensitive area with practiced ease. Tom’s birthday present lays abandoned, the sheets twisted and tangled in white mountains as Florence writhes under his torturous care.

And then he grows bolder still, making good on what has been building between them since they awoke, a stray hand snaking down across her stomach, below her knickers where heat has been growing this entire morning. Florence has only a moment’s realization of what is about to occur, and then his fingers are within her and his mouth has found hers and everything else in her mind is blank except for thoughts of Tom, of his ministrations which reduce her to nothing.

“ _Tom_ ,” Florence pants, unable to form coherent words as his palm finds the bud of pleasure between her thighs, pressing against her flesh. “Oh god, _please_.”

Tom chuckles against her lips, his hand more insistent, Florence’s nails raking along his back because no one has ever touched her like this and she feels like she’s lost control of her mouth and her mind and the only thing that is real to her is the man slowly ripping her to pieces. She has no idea what to do, how to hold her body, if she should touch him in return. She’s never done _this_ before and yet Tom’s fingers and lips seem to want for nothing, his gaze so wicked Florence can only lay subservient upon the bed, open to his attentions.

She can feel herself beginning to crest after what feels like hours under his jurisdiction, another low moan escaping her lips. Tom inhales this one too, and then the wave at last brakes over her, a groan is wrung from her lips and her back curves into the sky. Every nerve within Florence is on fire, Tom’s hand insistent between her legs, his fingers claiming that space that begs to be filled by him, _only_ by him, as her pleasure cracks and floods within her each crevasse of her body.

Tom has pulled his face away from hers, and through her fog, Florence can see the starved, red-eyed look that makes her feel both found and lost at the same time, his face twisted with what can only be described as hunger as he watches her fall apart, his name on her lips.

“ _Tom,_ ” she whispers again when her mind has cleared slightly, her pulse returning to normal as the final few shocks of ecstasy wash through her, leaving her with a soft glow of warmth throughout. His fingers slip from inside her, and she watches open mouthed and panting as he places the two long, delicate digits between his lips, cleaning her essence from his skin with a look that can only be described as savage delight, his eyes fixated upon hers, pale lips upturned into a smirk.

“So I must ask again, you bought clothes you would like to rip off me?” He says through a lazy grin, his recently cleaned hand coming to rest on her chest where his thumb can trace the curve beneath her breast. Florence’s body is boneless, but his words bring forth the usual flush, the acrid taste of burnt pride across the back of her tongue.

“Yes,” Florence replies defiantly. “Now open the rest of your present or else I’ll be forced to return the favor.”

Her hand creeps down his stomach to the elastic of his boxers in a moment of boldness, but Tom catches her wrist before she can move any further. His pupils are so wide Florence thinks she will sink into them, his tongue darting between his lips to wet.

“Don’t make threats you cannot keep, Florence,” he murmurs, his voice low and thunderous, her name a song upon his lips that she thinks she has loved since the first time he said it squaring off in the corridor of Hogwarts.

“Who says I wouldn’t keep it? And besides, you’ve done something for me – wouldn’t you like me to repay the favor?”

“Oh, very much,” he purrs, his hand circling her wrist tightening to the point of pain. Florence whimpers. “But it’s _my_ birthday, as you’ve pointed out, and what I really wanted was to watch you fall apart at my hand, because you are _mine_ , Florence Allman.”

His words make her feel heady and drunk and in that moment she forgets how to breathe, lost to the rise and fall of his chest, the fever in his eyes that makes her feel helpless to his desires. When he releases her wrist, she does not try again, although with a silent smirk to herself as she nestles once more on his chest, she’ll find a way to return the favor, preferably _soon_. Florence is, after all, the ultimate consumer, Tom her most prized purchase, and she _will_ exercise the power to have him moan her name into nothingness before long. Of that, she is certain.

Tom reaches for the discarded box with one hand, placing it in his lap as his other hand wraps around Florence’s shoulder, pads of his fingers pressing into her ribs. There is one item left amidst the tissue paper, and Florence smiles into his skin because this is what she is most excited about, even though it is the most expected, most obvious gift. Tom’s fingers make short work of the paper, revealing a pristine, navy leather cover with two simple lines of text in gold leaf.

_The Iliad_

_By Homer_

“I thought you’d like to have your own copy,” Florence says, propping her chin on his shoulder so that she can take in his expression. His face is blank – neither hungry nor excited, a mask of such definite proportions that even Florence cannot imagine what he is thinking. And yet when he turns to face her, his eyes tell a story that his voice never will, and she knows without asking that he loves it, that he understands what sharing this with him means.

“Read to me,” he murmurs, a command even if it is in his softest voice, the one reserved solely for her.

“Start with book two?”

Tom nods, and Florence takes the tome from him, peeling open the cover with a pleasant crackle, flipping the pages until she finds the spot she is looking for. Tom’s hand tightens around her, and they sit in amicable quiet – Florence’s voice the only sound in the room as outside the window, it begins to snow.

.

.

.

Much against his wishes, Tom begrudgingly follows Florence out through the snow some time later to the indoor riding ring to watch her trot and canter around the ring in various shapes and styles. Her father is already mounted by the time Florence arrives at the barn, and Florence runs off to join and challenge him to a four jump course while Tom watches with polite boredom from the edge of the ring. Florence smiles down at him the first few laps around the ring, but eventually she is too lost in the competition and even her enigmatic boy of fancy fades to the beat of hooves and the precision of turns and jumps.

“Tom not fond of horses?” Clifford asks as they trot side by side around the packed earth nearly an hour later, her father’s steady gaze noting Tom’s indifferent expression which is apparent even across the lowly lit space. His aristocratic features struggle to hide his displeasure, and Florence smiles at him.

“He wasn’t raised with them,” Florence defends, considering for what feels like the hundredth time how overwhelming all of this must be for Tom. How different their circumstances were.

“True enough. He’s been a good sport to put up with our family these past few weeks.”

“Yeah, he has.”

Florence gulps down a large breath of air, adjusting the seat in her saddle. Her father is straying into dangerous territory, and the knowing look in his eye confirms that he intends this.

“I know he’s important to you, and I know why you’ve dragged him halfway across the globe, Florie,” Clifford murmurs, his words barely raising above the steady clopping of hooves. “But I can’t deny that I’m uncomfortable with the idea of a boy I don’t know.”

“That’s why I want you to get to know him – it’s not like anyone will be making any decisions this spring,” Florence counters, and she wants to punch herself for the desperation she can hear in her voice, for the whining quality it has taken on. “Just give him a chance.”

Her father rolls his head from side to side popping joints in his neck, his weathered face tight with an expression that she cannot read but which makes coldness run through her like a river.

“Eudora’s already decided he can come in May as a suitor,” Clifford says after a tense moment. Something inside of Florence springs to life. “But I won’t deny that he has a lot to prove, Florie. No money, no set prospects, and from a walk of life that is very different from our own.”

“Dad, just cause—”

“Now don’t get started with me,” her father cuts her off. “You know I don’t give a rats ass if someone is from an old family, but there is something to be said for marrying somebody from the same station as you. You share similar expectations, similar understandings of the world. I don’t think it’s a barrier for a happy life, but it’s something to consider alongside other things, and I know you understand this.”

Florence wants to argue, but she cannot. There is some truth in this, although she has to bite back that Tom has put up with the flashy Allman lifestyle for three weeks now without blinking, and surely this must be a good sign? But she recalls the flashes of jealousy she can see in his face when she showed him some new miraculous piece of magic or property, and Florence swallows these words.

“But he can come in May?”

“Yes, Tom can come to your debut,” Clifford confirms, but he does not smile. Florence cannot tell what he is thinking, and although most of her fear still remains – that she will lose Tom, that she still has to communicate to Tom what her debut means and how it affects him – Florence must take this small admission as a victory.

“Thanks, dad,” Florence says with a small grin, and before he can take the words back, Florence squeezes her thighs and the horse beneath her springs into a canter, outpacing her father around the ring.

.

.

.

Their days in New York are different from their days in Georgia – heavier, quieter, full of those small moments in which the flare of his eyes, the quirk of Tom’s lip, the delicate flashes of his wrists fill Florence in a way that she has never before known. Without Lizzie, Philip, and Radella to distract them, Tom and Florence are left to their own devices – hours spent reading in silence, longer hours still dueling in the snow, in which Tom forces her to practice with her wand, mastering first _Petrificus Totalus,_ then a nonverbal shield which excites Tom so much that he kisses her long and hard until they fall into the snow breathless.

There are long walks around the property in which Tom dons his new green hunting jacket. Florence suspects he enjoys the blush that abounds across her face each time she sees him in it, but she _knows_ he lives for the moments in which she takes his hand and apparates them back to her room, fingers succinctly tearing the coat from his shoulders, lips smothering the laughter that blooms in his chest. The jacket spends much more time abandoned on the floor then on Tom’s shoulders in those days.

Dinners are less pressing after the first, Florence’s mother content to listen to stories from Hogwarts, Albion distracting Florence with tales from childhood, her father pleasantly quiet at the head of the table where he belonged. Tom and Owen spend almost one entire meal discussing the pros and cons of British versus French spell casting until both Albion and Florence are mad with boredom and call for an end to the conversation. Florence can see Tom wearing down her family’s defenses – Eudora succumbing to his manners when he compliments the shade of her dress, Owen enthralled by the rare texts Tom has consumed, and even Albion abashedly impressed when he hears that Tom is the reigning Hogwarts dueling champion.

And at night, long after the lodge is silent with rumblings of sleep, Tom appears in her doorway, holding his new copy of the Iliad, eyes wide and dare she say _longing_ , a silent appeal for her to read to him, to share again that magic they have been crafting from scratch. Some nights Florence reads until Tom’s eyelids are closed and his arms twitch around her waist in the throes of dreams, and other nights they read but a few lines, Tom determined to ask her about every facet of her life.

“Why is your magic easier to access upon your estate?”

“The land is accustomed to being called upon,” Florence tries to explain, frowning to herself. “Each time you call upon the land, it is like reaffirming a relationship, building a tie that was not there before. Magic leaves its marks, and those in Georgia are deep and often trod so it makes it easier for me.”

“Is some of your magic left in the land each time you access it?”

“Not unless done so intentionally. It’s a familiarity, and when the bridge is accessed enough, the magic in the land or the air or the trees can recognize you even when not called upon. I was trained upon my family estate, the land there knows me without asking.”

“So the magic of your family’s land is your magic?” Tom asks. She peers at him through the moonlight, his gaze fixed out of the window as if considering the rippling hills around the home. Tom has been struggling with the idea of possession, that the magic of the land can belong to anyone.

“No, I am but the conduit for this magic,” Florence repeats. They have gone over this several times. “I call upon the various magics, I make requests, and through me they act, but their power is not _my_ power. I am at their mercy always.”

“But if the land responds each time, it is as good as yours.”

This is Tom’s response each time, and he felt further certain of this after Florence admitted that her native magic had never denied her. But Tom still could not comprehend magical sentience, that once magic had been whole, and when the Great Spirit had divided it, the magic within each entity became its own, unique and whole and subservient to no other. The land responded to her because she understood that no magic but that within her was her own, because she comprehended the bridge between the language and the asking and the gift it was to speak with the spirits around her.

“I think it will be easier for you to understand if you try. I’ll do my best to try and teach you when we return to school.”

And at these words, Tom had turned from the window, capturing her lips in his before his fingers found the apex of her thighs and every thought of Florence’s flew away upon the wings of the wind.

When they both became restless halfway through the week, trapped in the house for two days when a snowstorm struck, Florence and Tom flooed back to Georgia to spend the day swimming in the river and traipsing through the fields. She took him to Adsila’s grave and forced him to chase her through the mid-afternoon summer thunderstorm when she stole his wand from his back pocket. He caught her within seconds, and seconds later they were horizontal in the mud, rainwater streaming down their faces as Tom pins her to the earth. He laughs, deep and loud when Florence holds his wand to his throat, feeling the thrill of magic pulse through her, pressed as she is to the soil of her ancestors.

“Going to hex me?” He shouts over the steady pounding of rain. Florence thinks the gray backdrop must have fused with Tom’s spirit, he is both one with and without the storm, lighting all on his own.

“I can do that now,” she smirks, the wand tip digging slightly into his chin. “I’ve had a good teacher.”

“You still have so much to learn,” he says, and his gaze is wild and unkept and water has smeared the perfect chocolate waves of his hair, stray tendrils sticking to his forehead. Florence doesn’t think he has ever seemed so childlike, so unbothered. Her heart sings with the thought that she has brought this out of him, that she wants to continue to – to smother his memories of an orphaned and loveless childhood with kindness and happiness until she is his reality, not the haunts he comes from.

“I’m never going to be able to do magic like you, Tom,” Florence laughs, drops of rain falling into her open mouth, the image of crackling bolts of purple lighting flying towards her, of blue flames the size of horses, of a dragon soaring through the air filling her mind.

“No,” Tom agrees readily, “but I don’t need another me.” The rest goes understood, unsaid. That he needs _her_. That Florence gives Tom something he cannot give himself. And yet laying upon the ground, rain turning the soil into a sponge, Florence feels that fluttering of insecurity which threatens to choke her sometimes because she has never understood why this boy who is beautiful and intelligent and capable has chosen her.

“You just want my native magic,” she accuses, her hand reaching seemingly of its own accord to brush away the soaking hair that has obscured his brow, somehow the strands still silk-like under the deluge. Tom’s pale face wrinkles with a smirk, midnight eyes like portals through the clouds behind him.

“Yes,” Tom agrees readily.

Florence has to look away from him then, the suddenly agony of his admission a knife to her chest that she thinks will bleed her to death. There are needles in her eyes, a band tightening around her throat, and it’s too much to both breathe and see at the same time because she was so _foolish_ to believe that Tom might have actually cared for her beyond what she could do for him. After all, she cannot even transfigure a textbook, and Tom got _O_ ’s on all of his O.W.L.’s – he’d told her. He’s miraculous and beautiful and she’d allowed herself to get caught up in everything he was, blinding her to the truth. Florence is pressed into the earth under his towering frame and all she can hope is that the land – her land – will swallow her and end the aching that has arisen like wildfire in her ribs because Tom’s never been interested in _her_ , only in what she can give him, and like an idiot she’s misconstrued the two.

But before her mind can spiral any further, Florence feels the familiar tingle of magic across her skin as Tom’s hand closes around her jaw, his forefinger and thumb pressing into the hollows of her cheeks as he turns her head, forcing her gaze back to his and she hates that he is the most handsome person she has ever laid eyes upon, even now. Her onset of hysteria blinds her from his face which is raw and angular and turbulent with emotion he is incapable of expressing.

“Yes,” he hisses when Florence attempts to rip her face from his grasp. She fails as his fingers tighten around her jaw, holding her in place. “Yes – I want to know everything about your native magic. It is powerful and strong and full of potential you cannot see. I have no doubt that when I master it – and I _will_ master it – I will be capable of performing magic never before considered.” Florence wants to squirm from his clutch, but she is transfixed by the way he is speaking, the fervor in his gaze.

“But _you_ , Florence,” he says, and his voice trembles when he says her name and everything inside of her is frozen, threatening to shatter into a million pieces. “ _You_ are divinity and magic incarnate and a power of a whole other kind, and I want whatever it is you are as well.”

Florence cries then, as his lips crash into hers, his fingers tangling with the mud and water in her hair. She cannot breathe as he presses her into the earth, the warmth of his body a welcome relief in the rain. _I want whatever it is you are._ There will never be words that mean more, rough and ineloquent as they are, and throwing her arms around his neck, Florence imprints them into her brain.

“You’re an idiot, Tom,” Florence pants against his mouth, her hands clasping each side of his face. “You are the one who is magic.”

And he smiles at her like she is the sun.

Florence returns the smile for a moment, and then seconds later she rolls out from under him, getting to her feet and sprinting down the row of dittany trees with his wand still in her grasp because even now she cannot stop herself from getting under his skin, from breaking his mask that hides words like those he has just given her.

.

.

.

A week later, Florence and Tom find themselves standing in the heavily wooded living room before a roaring fire, the entirety of the Allman family gathered to see them off, trunks at the ready. Florence has had two cups of coffee, and yet she cannot shake the tremors of exhaustion which encircle her, nor the welling of grief at the impending separation from her family. Beside her, Tom is smiling without it reaching his eyes, a sign of his own tiredness – or his readiness to be away from her family at last. They had been up late visiting with Illini, and been awoken early in order to make their international portkey back to Gardiner Manor.

“Try not to miss me too much, Florie,” Albion calls, stepping forward to enfold her into a tight bear hug and beginning the inevitable round of goodbyes. Florence punches him in the side for his teasing, but hugs him all the same afterward, whispering her own goodbye in his ear. Clifford is clapping Tom on the shoulder next to them, wishing him well for his final semester at Hogwarts, and then it is Owen’s lanky frame folding her into a much lighter hug.

“Tell your friends I say hello,” he says under his breath, largely so Albion will not hear.

“She’ll be writing to you soon,” Florence responds, rolling her eyes at his blushing face. “She doesn’t have an owl at home.”

And then her father is before her and all thoughts of Owen and Radella’s blossoming flirtation is gone, his weathered face breaking into a rare smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“I’m so proud of you Florence,” he says, pulling her into a hug that smells of earth and smoke. “Continuing your education, learning all this big time magic? You’re a real Allman.”

There is a stinging in her eyes, a sticking in her throat, and then the hug has ended and Tom’s hand is slipping into her own, as if he has sensed that her knees might buckles at any moment and he intends to tie her to the earth. Albion’s face tightens at the action, but Florence peers up at him with a watery smile – an attempt at thanks.

“Tom, we we’re so glad you could visit,” Eudora says, sweeping in to press a kiss to each cheek as if in a French bistro, not their hunting lodge. “You’re welcome any time.”

“Thank you Mrs. Allman,” Tom rumbles, and Florence rolls her eyes at the smirk that graces his features.

“Florence, I’ve already gotten approval from Headmaster Dippet for you to portkey home for a dress fitting in late February, I’ll write to you with the dates. And you’re going to have to sign paperwork saying that you want Owen and Albion to be your escorts.”

“Of course, Mom,” Florence says, an inkling of fear slipping into her system because she still hasn’t discussed her debut with Tom, and she can feel his palm twitch against hers because he _hates_ not knowing something, and he certainly doesn’t know about this.

“And Tom,” Eudora continues, turning to the dark haired boy beside her, and everything within Florence turns to ice because she knows what is coming and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. “Look for my letter about travels in May. Of course, we’ll cover travel and all the expenses, and I’ll send you a suitor’s sash along with your invitation once I’ve gotten it. We’re so looking forward to seeing you so soon.”

Tom’s hand has turned to granite in Florence’s grasp, and it is only through his superior self-control and manners that he manages to bow his head slightly and murmur a curt thanks. His jaw is so tight it could cut through iron, and the ice within her melts into a hard, unforgiving pool of fear.

Florence feels numb as she is hustled into the fireplace, Tom’s hand now crushing hers, and with one final look at her beaming, waving family, Florence hears Tom call out for Manhattan customs and then they are swirling away.

He does not speak to her, does not even deign to look in her direction, the hand holding hers so painfully tight that Florence thinks she might lose circulation. She wishes that customs would slow down, that Tom would be forced to grapple with his anger internally for longer before they were alone at her Manor home and he would have free range to lose control. Already she could see the crimson sheen in his eyes, and coldness slid down her throat. But too soon they are assigned a portkey, and before she even registers, there is a hooking in her navel and everything is a blue blur, transporting them across the ocean. Her mind feels like static, racing to form words to explain, but all she can see is the tempest in Tom’s gaze as they whirl into nothingness.

They land on the front step, the glass soda bottle falling to the ground and shattering between them.

“What does she mean, _suitor_?” Tom demands before Florence has even taken a breath, stepping forward over the still ringing shards to pin her against the stone wall. She has only seen him this angry one other time at Slughorn’s party, and even that memory pales to the twisted nature of his features now, the unfathomable fury that ripples through his magic and the air around their bodies, ripping and pulling at Florence so that she squirms before him.

“We need to talk,” Florence whispers, her voice too loud in her head, and she winces at the whiteness in Tom’s face. Without tearing his eyes from hers, he throws his hand to the side and the door opens with a deafening _bang_.

“Get inside, and talk.”

Florence nods and drags her trunk behind her, unsure how it could have gotten so backwards so quickly, certain that she is walking towards her doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the cliffhanger, but hope you all enjoyed! Much love to you readers Xx


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say that I really really struggled with this chapter, and with the next one as well. I've rewritten it several times, and I'm probably going to be really unhappy with it in a few days, but I don't want to dwell on it for too long so I'm just rolling the die and sharing it. 
> 
> Also, just wanted to reiterate my thanks for all of the comments and kudos. Also - nearly 3,000 hits?? This is very silly to say, but in my head when I think about stories that have a lot of views, 3,000 was always my benchmark, and I'm so close. THANK YOU!!!! To everyone sticking with my story, you're the best.
> 
> Stay safe please <3

**Chapter 27**

"You see?" he whispered. "It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts, to my most intimate friends only, of course. You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle father's name forever? I, in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother's side? I, keep the name of a foul, common Muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born, just because he found out his wife was a witch? No, Harry- I fashioned myself a new name, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!”   
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

“Talk,” he commands again, his face still warped with the anger that erases any of his beauty until only the shell of the man she has come to revolve around remains. Florence gulps down air as the gravel in his voice scrapes across her skin. They are standing in the grand foyer, the marble floor echoing as Tom paces before her.

“I’m debuting in May,” Florence begins, and her voice is nothing more than a sliver of wind, an exhale of passing thought.

“What is a debut? What does that mean?”

His voice snaps and crackles like floats of ice smashing into one another, and she shivers.

“It’s a presentation to society,” Florence says, and then she forces herself to lift her eyes up and meet his. “It means I’ll be eligible for marriage?”

“And why has your mother referred to me as a suitor?”

She can feel the energy in the air and she knows they are getting dangerously close to him exploding. Florence wishes she could go back in time, tell him all of this before they arrived in America. And yet – how could she have known what he would come to mean to her? In the past four weeks alone upon Allman land Tom’s import to Florence had expanded exponentially until there was hardly room within her to accommodate the feelings. If she had told him too soon, he may have been off-put, and yet here he was, similarly upset for the opposite reason.

“Because by inviting you to spend time with my family in New York, _I_ expressed my interest in _you_ as a suitor…for me…for marriage...”

Her words trail off until there is nothing but silence hanging in the air, as if she has lost the ability to speak. The very molecules around them seem to vibrate with the ripples of Tom’s anger, every hair on her body standing at attention. Florence is not looking at Tom, but his footsteps have gone silent as he processes her words. She closes her eyes, unable to even glance at him, incapable of escaping the gaze which she knows is burning a hole through her as she avoids it.

“Tom I’m so sorry, I’m _so_ sorry,” Florence explodes, lifting her gaze to see him staring down the hallway, his face completely blank, his eyes so narrow they could sever limbs. “I should have told you, but I didn’t know how to explain it and I didn’t want to drive you away before I knew how you felt about me, and it’s absolute _madness_ that I’m seventeen and I have to think about who I’m possibly going to marry. And my parents, and the expectations…”

The words fly from her mouth unhinged, desperate to make him understand, for him to know that she was not lying to him or denying him. That she’s been brought up in a system that wants to decide her entire life for her, that he’s not bound to anything, but at least now the option stands – for both of them. That she wanted to live in a world just for a moment where he was hers and she was his and no one could tell them otherwise.

“I won’t even get married for at least another five years or so, but I knew my parents would never consent to picking someone they don’t know let alone inviting someone they don’t know to my debut, and…. And…” her voice is trembling. “And I really _care_ about you and I didn’t want the fact that you aren’t from some old Southern family to be the reason my parents rejected you – I wanted them to get to know you and to see the miraculous person I see, and then if in two years you don’t want me anymore, that’s fine, but at least it was your decision or my decision, not theirs.”

She’s panting, unsure if she’s even come close to articulating what it is that has occurred. Her thoughts feel like strings all tied together, incapable of sifting through her emotions and fears to communicate whatever it is Tom needs to hear. And still he is silent, his face like thunder etched into stone, and she wishes he would say something, _anything_ because his silence surely hurts more than his words.

“ _Tom_ ,” Florence whispers when the quiet grows unbearable. Like a tether, his head whips around at the simple utterance of his name, all at once Florence regretting haven spoken because she never wants to see him like this – broken and infuriated and eyes like rubies, skin white as snow.

“So,” he murmurs, and it’s snakelike, biting. “You invited me to your home in America for the purpose of expressing interest in _marriage_.” It is not a question, an accusation which seems to rip the very fabric of her being. “And having done this, you waited until you parents found me _worthy_ , and now – I am to be expected to compete for you? As if you are some kind of prize?”

“It’s not like that,” Florence stutters, choking on her words. “it’s not a competition, there isn’t some prize.”

“No?” Tom asks, and he smirks, but it does nothing to soften his façade. He moves closer, and Florence has the urge to run away. She doesn’t understand this part of him, how he can be both this terrifying, shell of a man, and yet also the boy who flushes when he gets presents and congratulates her for learning magic he could do in his sleep.

“No,” he repeats again, closer still, and Florence at last has to step back, unable to bear his magic which is pulling at her skin, tearing her flesh apart. “It _is_ a competition in which you have entered me against my bidding, like I’m some kind of show dog attuned to your wishes. Do you think that the idiotic tradition of marriage falls into my plans? Did you truly imagine I would fall at your feet in thanks for having your parents overlook my supposed shortcomings of birth? _I_ , who have performed magic the likes of which has never been seen before, at _your_ beck and call? Waiting for approval within _your_ narrowminded and inconsequential institutions?”

“I don’t think you’re at anyone’s beck and call,” Florence snaps, feeling her own ire rising. How dare he mock her, mock those things which she had been raised apart of – a system she was neither responsible for nor free from.

“ _You’re mine, Tom Riddle_ ,” he spits at her, his fist latching onto the front of her dress and shaking slightly, parroting her words and actions with a hiss that cuts through every defense she has. “You have tried to claim me, and now you have attempted to force me into some convention which I neither sought or asked for.”

“Fine!” Florence shouts, her hand grabbing his wrist and forcing him to release the fabric of her dress. “Fine, then _don’t_ come in May. _Don’t_ participate, remove yourself from consideration. If the most detestable thing I have done to you is to say that I care for you so much that I have considered breaking every value my family holds for you, for putting myself on a limb for their shame and derision because I am _terrified_ of the magnitude of things I feel for you, Tom Riddle, then _so. Be. It._ But I haven’t bound you to anything, I’ve given you an option, and myself an option. And how could you _possibly_ think I’d give a shit about your background? After everything we’ve shared, do you really think I’d care?”

His face is impenetrable, a wall that she has shattered a thousand times, but now is rebuilt stronger than ever before. She hates him for it – for bearing her heart to him and having Tom look on it with revulsion.

“I have known you for hardly four months and I know, I _know_ , that whatever this…this _thing_ is between us is a _lot._ And I wish I was more articulate and that there were words for this, but all I could think was how much I would hate myself if you _didn’t_ come to America, if I never gave us the chance to be something more than a passing wind during my short stay at Hogwarts. And I didn’t tell you about the debut because I was terrified if I expressed any of my feelings you’d walk away, and I didn’t know what was worse. Losing you before it began, or letting us continue only to have my parents rip you away.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” he repeats, and his voice is colder than the artic.

_I don’t appreciate ambiguity._

_I want whatever it is you are._

His words pound through her head, and she must bite her cheek to stop herself from asking if he is as terrified as she is by this growing emotion between them? If it is his tenuous grasp on Florence’s future which makes him despise the situation – or is it truly that he does not wish to take part in the tradition, if she has misread the depth of his feelings. And yet, the question hovers on the tip of her tongue, unable to be said because the fear that it is the latter is so all consuming Florence must repress the urge to vomit on the floor between their feet.

“I know,” Florence whispers, and she realizes she is still grasping his wrist. “I don’t want it to be like this either – I want it to be my choice, but introducing you to my family as a part of the debut tradition was the only way for me to have you _and_ keep my family.”

 _Don’t make me choose between the two of you_ the rest of her words go unsaid. It is a choice she could never make, to rip her very soul in two over those things which matter the most to Florence.

Tom’s face is impassive, unflinching, but he moves with such electricity that Florence is blindsided by his actions. Within a second he has pinned her to the wall, her head slamming against the stone so that all breath is knocked from her lungs, his lips suffocating her further as he latches onto her. He is still angry – she can feel it in every swipe of his tongue, in his hands which threaten to crush her face, in his magic which still crackles in the air around the pair of them – usually comforting, but now a veiled threat. He has never kissed her like this, as if every fiber of his being exists only to consume her, to stake a claim upon her skin. She hates this kiss, for the first time ever wishing he would release her.

And then he has pulled away, his face still impassive, a sheet of perfect marble, tendons in his neck snapping as his jaw silently chews words he will not share. Tom’s hand takes Florence’s and he tugs her without comment towards the fire, Florence only barely able to grab onto her trunk before she is steered into the flames and Tom has thrown green powder beneath their feet. She misses her last glance of Gardiner manor as she stares up at Tom. Tom who is so angry he cannot speak, and her heart is encapsulated in ice because she does not know if he will forgive her for taking the control away from him, or if perhaps he is angry because she cannot seem to say – to name – that thing they share between them.

They arrive in Dippet’s office, Tom dropping her hand and stepping out of the fireplace before she can even register that they have landed. Levisor stands just to their left clutching a clipboard, his willowy frame the only other figure in the room as they exit the flames.

“Ah, Riddle, welcome back,” his raspy voice sounds, checking his scroll of parchment before drawing a line through what Florence assumes is Tom’s name. “And Miss Allman. Hope you both had a lovely holiday.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Tom replies curtly, and again he reaches for Florence without a hint of emotion, tugging her from the Headmaster’s office without further comment. They move down the corridors of Hogwarts in silence – Florence simultaneously abashed and infuriated by Tom’s ability to hide his thoughts. He seems to be at war with himself, unsure of whether or not to cast Florence away like a carrier of the plague, or to press her against a different wall and smother her mouth in another kiss that makes Florence feel more afraid than aroused.

“I will see you at dinner,” Tom says tersely, and it is only then that Florence realizes that she has been moving blindly through the halls and they are now stationed outside of the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room. Tom turns away and sets off from whence they came before the bronze bird on the door has even rustled to life, and it is only after she has answered the question that she realizes it is the first time Tom has not done it for her. Even after their first tutoring lesson, he’d opened the common room door, and now – with so much _more_ between them – he had left her. Something inside her which has been aching since their fight began seems to shrivel and die.

Lizzie and Philip are seated at the table behind the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw, but upon spotting Florence, Lizzie is up and walking primly across the room. After only two weeks apart, Florence is again struck by the beauty in her companion’s face, the intense summer blue of her eyes, the smile which probably drives Pyrrhus Avery mad with desire. Swallowing the storm of emotions within her, she bats away tears and returns the grin.

“Florence,” the girl says coolly, pulling her into a hug as familiar as pulling on an old favorite sweater. “I can’t believe it’s only been two weeks – it feels like longer.”

“Missed you, Lizzie,” Florence whispers into the girl’s long blonde hair, her voice oddly choked with the truth of it. It had only been two weeks, but all the same, it had felt like years since they’d ribbed each other and scoured their homework for mistakes.

“How was your family?” Florence asks as they make their way to the table to join Philip who is giving Florence his easiest smile, his freckled face split nearly in two.

“Oh, you know,” Lizzie says with an air of annoyance. “Lottie was stuck to my hip, mother wanted to go over every single detail of my wedding plans.”

“It must have been so hard for you to have _all_ that attention.” Florence smirks, Lizzie hits her lightly on the shoulder.

“I haven’t missed that attitude.”

“Just speaking the truth – hello, Philip,” Florence adds, stooping to hug the boy from behind and to press a kiss to the top of his head before sliding into the seat next to him.

“Allman,” he intones, his smile widening.

“And what decisions have you made?” Florence asks, returning her gaze to Elizabeth Greengrass, who at every moment demands to be seen.

“Nothing of note. The flowers were the easiest, and of course it will be happening on our estate. Pyrrhus’ home is much smaller and mother and father want to invite nearly half of wizarding Britain it feels like.”

“And the date?”

A broad smirk spans Lizzie’s face, and a moment later she has pulled a crisp white envelope from her bag and is passing it across the table to Florence. The cardstock is thick, the penmanship in gold ink, an elegant _P &E_stamped into the wax seal.

“I wanted to give it to you in person,” Lizzie says, her voice slightly breathless.

Florence gently slides a finger under the seal, and pulls out the wedding invitation, her eyes scanning the fine gold penmanship that informs Florence of the summer ceremony in a year’s time.

“Summer wedding, how mainstream of you,” Florence teases, but unable to hide the smile that graces her lips. Lizzie rolls her eyes.

“Don’t be rude or I’ll take the second piece of paper in your envelope without letting you read it.”

Florence has snatched the envelope from the table once more before Lizzie can make good on her threat. Sure enough, a smaller card with a singular line of writing is at the bottom of the folder.

_Will you be my witness?_

“A witness?” Florence asks, sure she is missing something and most likely offending Lizzie as a result. But in a rare showing of patience, Lizzie smiles. Her hand reaches across the table and takes Florence’s, squeezing lightly.

“It’s like the wizarding version of a Bridesmaid,” Lizzie explains, and there is a mist in her summer eyes that Florence recalls seeing only on occasion. Despite the argument with Tom and the exhaustion that has been tearing at her since this morning, Florence feels a different, softer welling of emotion within her throat.

“ _Lizzie_ ,” Florence croaks, her vision swimming as her eyes fill with tears. “I’d love too.”

There is a playful slap on her wrist, but even Florence can see the blush that is forming on the pristine girl’s cheeks.

“Don’t go getting emotional. You’ll make me cry, and I hate crying.”

“Charming as always, Lizzie,” Philip chuckles under his breath. “How was New York, Florence?”

“It was nice. We played a lot of wizards checkers with Owen and Albion, and I took Tom to the symphony one night.” Florence does not mention her fight, unable to rationalize in her mind that that night in which Tom had watched her in the crowd like _she_ was the music had occurred in such a short span from today when everything had fallen apart. How could he be both so enchanting and cold, Florence could not comprehend.

“There’s a wizarding symphony in New York?” Lizzie asks, intrigued. “We’ve got tickets to the wizarding symphony in Godric’s Hollow, but we never go.”

“I’m sure there is, but we went to the NoMaj performance. Their hall is much bigger and they played a favorite piece of mine.”

“And Riddle was fine with that?” Lizzie’s brows shoot up her forehead in disbelief.

“I recall he had a good evening,” Florence says coldly, unable to push away the memory of his intolerances, remembering with an inkling of guilt that Tom believed NoMaj’s and their magical children to be no more than rock’s under his feet. A belief which she had chosen to overlook for his magical prowess, for the searing looks only he could give.

“Don’t get snippy with me,” Lizzie replies. “We all know Riddle hates all things muggle. How did your parents like him?”

“Mom loves him, or at least I think she does. Dad I can’t tell,” Florence admits, biting her lip and looking out across the common room to the star patterned ceiling. “He’s very protective of me.”

“Daddy’s little girl, aye?” Philip asks with a laugh.

“What you mean is that Tom isn’t inheriting boatloads of money which insures he can take care of you to the level that your father would like,” Lizzie says, cutting through the fluff with a dagger-like comment. “And he doesn’t know Tom well enough yet to have formed an opinion otherwise.”

“Well, when you put it like that – yes.” Florence still can’t bring herself to meet Lizzie’s eye, the image of Tom’s face warped with unadulterated fury flashed through her mind. _Does he even want me anymore? Has the marriage thing scared him off? Does he understand he’s not trapped into some circumstance?_

“And Albion is convinced he’s a stalker, so my odds are ever worsening.”

“Odds for what? Your debut? Is Riddle going?” Philip asks, still a step or two behind the conversation.

“Well my mother invited Tom this morning as we were leaving before I could speak to him about my situation, so as you can both imagine, it went really _well._ ”

“Oh, Florence,” Lizzie whispers, and the twinge in her friend’s voice draws Florence’s gaze from the ceiling, the tears once more returning to her eyes. It was so _unfair_. All of it – her family’s control over her decision, Tom’s circumstances of birth which were no fault of his own, the fact that Florence was a mere seventeen years old and being forced to consider people for marriage. The nausea was overwhelming.

“How did he take it?”

“He insinuated that I was not enough of a prize to warrant the hassle of marriage, and that he rejected the idea that he was a show dog being asked to participate in a competition,” Florence whispers, the words nearly rendering her incapable. “So, about as poorly as you’d think.”

“That prat!” Philip growls, his mouth falling open in shock.

“Did you explain?” Lizzie asks quietly, for once the accusatory edge in her voice missing.

“I did, or at least I tried too, but I’m not sure he wanted to hear what I had to say.”

“He shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

“I should have told him sooner,” Florence counters.

“Sure, but anyone with a pea for a brain can see he’s obsessed with you. I think suggesting that you’re interested in him can only be seen as a compliment,” Philip explains. It is a thoughtful comment, a salve upon the bleeding wound within her chest, and Florence gives him a weak smile in return.

“Look, I don’t really wanna talk about it anymore,” Florence sighs. “It’s been a long day, and the person I _actually_ need to talk to is so angry at me he’s seeing red.”

“He’ll come around, Florence,” Lizzie assures, a businesslike tone coming back to her voice. “He reacted poorly because he’s so wrapped around your finger that I’m sure he was horrified to learn that having you in his life won’t ultimately be his decision. He’s so used to being in charge – you’ve seen him in class and doing Head Boy duties - and no one knows what he’s planning for after Hogwarts, but everyone thinks he’ll be Minister for Magic or something of the like. You are unexpected, and now you’re relatively out of his reach.”

“Fair points well made,” Florence says with another sigh which seems to coil in her chest like a lump of lead. “But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s rightfully ticked at me, and he informed me he wants to play no part in the tradition.”

“Give him time,” Lizzie counters.

Florence nods and then gets to her feet, reaching for her trunk and pulling it up the stairs one at a time until she reaches the 7thfloor girls dormitory. The room is blessedly empty, although Florence immediately wishes for distraction when she realizes she is alone with her thoughts.

 _I didn’t ask for this_. No, Tom hadn’t asked to be considered a suitor – but had he not insinuated that he was, at the very least, interested in her? Surely, as Philip had pointed out, Florence’s desire to introduce him to her family could be nothing more than a compliment. And yet, she could not swallow the guilt that loomed within her that she had made him a pawn beside her in this game others were playing around them.

It was only a short time later that Lizzie arrives in the dormitory to call Florence to dinner, silently ignoring the redness around her eyes, the pink in her cheeks from crying. They reach the Great Hall, reliving the best moments of their holiday vacations, and took their seats beside Philip. Florence’s gaze strays to the Slytherin table without thinking, searching for the exacting porcelain façade of Tom Riddle, and coming up empty handed. Pyrrhus and Leonidas could be seen laughing at something the Nott boy had said, but their usual leader was nowhere to be found. Another knife seemed to twist in her gut.

“Stop staring,” Lizzie hissed, drawing Florence back into the conversation.

“I just want to talk to him.”

“You _did_ talk to him, and it didn’t go well. Give him time,” she repeats. With a small nod, Florence dives into the platters of food before them, selecting from several offerings, although her appetite is nonexistent.

It feels strange to once more be back in Hogwarts, the pulsing of magic that is not her own emitting from the stones beneath her feet. She has been enraptured by the magic of this place since the first time she set foot within its walls, but returning with so much on her mind lessens the impact, and she feels blooming within her the familiar ache of homesickness coupling with her sadness over Tom. At the head table, Dumbledore is deep in conversation with a professor Florence does not recognize, reminding her of her lessons which will resume the next day. Tomorrow, she will return to class and once more be the worst student in the year. It is a bitter pill to swallow after four weeks reveling in the magic of her people, unfurling enchantments never before seen to Tom, and the acrid taste of burnt pride springs across her tongue.

The three of them enjoy pudding and a hearty discussion of the better parts of Florence’s estate, and then they make the return journey to the common room, the inky black of the night sky visible through the windows. Florence feels sluggish, although whether it’s from travel or the cloud of sadness which has hovered around her shoulders throughout the evening, she is unsure. An angry, possessive sliver of her wants to storm down to the Slytherin common room, to burst into Tom’s room and tell him he’s _hers_ and she doesn’t care if he wants to be or not. Another part of her wants to fall at his feet and beg forgiveness, the idea that she has wounded him to the point of abandoning her like something from a nightmare.

“I’ve got dreamless sleep potion, if you want it,” Lizzie offers, a calculating look in her summer blue eyes. A wash of relief flows through Florence, and she nods mutely. At the very least, she will not be haunted by his beautiful face in her slumber.

The potion is minty, slightly bitter, and only moments later Florence has slipped into darkness, her last thought of a midnight blue that grows until it swallows her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks everyone!!! You are the B E S T readers a writer could ask for:)


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oi! Talk about blood, sweat, and tears. I worked so long and hard on this chapter, and I'm definitely not 100% on it either, but I felt bad that I left you all on a cliffhanger, so here we are!
> 
> I'm going to be taking a quick break after this chapter. I have a HUGE next two weeks coming up, and I just need to take a moment to get prepared/my life organized, and I don't want to let any of you down by not posting, so this is my way of saying I'll probably be out the next two weeks. Don't worry, I will be back, I could never abandon this or you! I hope that you guys can forgive me and have patience with me. So far, the group of people reading this story has been the best readers I have ever had, and I can't say thank you enough:) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, I'm so nervous about it but also excited. It took a few turns even I wasn't expecting!!

**Chapter 28**

“Name one hero who was happy."  
I considered. Heracles went mad and killed his family; Theseus lost his bride and father; Jason's children and new wife were murdered by his old; Bellerophon killed the Chimera but was crippled by the fall from Pegasus' back.  
"You can't." He was sitting up now, leaning forward.  
"I can't."  
"I know. They never let you be famous AND happy." He lifted an eyebrow. "I'll tell you a secret."  
"Tell me." I loved it when he was like this.  
"I'm going to be the first." He took my palm and held it to his. "Swear it."  
"Why me?"  
"Because you're the reason. Swear it."  
"I swear it," I said, lost in the high color of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes.  
"I swear it," he echoed.  
We sat like that a moment, hands touching. He grinned.  
"I feel like I could eat the world raw.” 

  
― Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

The Chamber calls to him. As the final heir of Slytherin, it was as if the cavern beneath the castle had recognized his magic the moment he stepped foot within Hogwarts his first year, sealing a connection and tying him to that place. It was his refuge early on, a symbolic place that proved his worth to those pure-bloods too blind to recognize him for his power, and it had become his domain during that year he’d reigned terror within the school. But Tom had not returned to the Chamber since he sealed it two years ago, unwilling to risk getting caught – losing everything and starting from scratch.

Yet despite all his precautions, he’d left Florence at her common room door and headed straight for it, the call of the Chamber echoing in that cavern within his chest until all thoughts of restraint had escaped him. What a relief it had been to say the words, parseltongue slipping from his lips, to see the opening within the bathroom floor where disgusting, filthy Myrtle Warren had died. And the Chamber had been waiting, his ancestor’s face etched into the stone at the end of the hall, staring with approval upon the last of his line.

But for the first time standing before Salazar’s effigy at the heart of his most sacred space, Tom feels something else tugging at his being, like a thread stretching from his gut far above him towards the Ravenclaw common room where he knows Florence must be sleeping, the tracking charm he placed upon her both a blessing and curse. For the first time in his life Tom must grapple with being drawn in separate directions.

Towards Slytherin – his power, his destiny, every decision he has ever made until now.

Towards Florence – a mere girl.

Tom has broken and repaired the columns holding the cavern aloft in anger so many times since he arrived in the Chamber this evening that it ceases to bring relief. Instead, he stands, staring numbly up at Slytherin’s face, his mind whirling faster than the speed of sound.

For his entire life he has always felt a cold sense of purpose. That he was destined for more than the orphanage, that he was stronger than the weak minded students of Hogwarts, that he was greater than the pure-bloods and their outdated traditions and the magical society which had grown despondent with an incapable Ministry. Tom had seen all of this as clear as daylight, and he’d mapped a path to glory and power that would mark him as the most capable, most extraordinary sorcerer that had ever been and was ever to be. He’s lived his life in accordance with this plan, that is until this year when a simple girl from America had stumbled into his path and laughed at him and smiled at him and told him thank you, and everything he’d ever planned had suddenly been insufficient because the magic and power they shared was something he could never create on his own, no matter his strength.

 _Florence Allman_.

Just thinking her name threatens to rip his spirit in two because he’s been at war with himself since she attempted to explain what had evolved between them that afternoon. He’d been so angry – he’s _still_ angry – that he’d considered killing her on the spot and ending this turmoil within his mind. He’d killed before, he was capable, and yet the thought of lifting a finger against Florence was abhorrent. Worse was alongside his anger lived some strange, impenetrable glow that he could not dampen because she had looked at him with those impossibly brown eyes swimming with tears and called him _miraculous_. She had said that she cared for him.

He’s gotten thousands of compliments, but none of them have ever been branded onto his mind, pasted onto his skin like an itch he cannot satisfy.

 _I am terrified of the magnitude of things I feel for you, Tom Riddle_.

What did that mean? Did Florence too get an ache the size of the universe, as deep as the ocean whenever she looked at him? Did she also get dizzy when they were together, forlorn when they were apart? And _why_ was he considering forgiving this transgression, this brutal manipulation of his person, because he liked the way she said his name, the way her body curved into his hand when he touched her just _there_.

He is the heir of Slytherin, this Chamber, his magical prowess were both evidence of that, and she had no right to bind him to the laws of her menial American society. Hadn’t Florence already agreed that she was his? Why would he then oblige to compete for her? It was demeaning, unfitting for someone of his merit, to fight for a possession that was already his. And why should she have any control over him – why should her parents who are small minded and plain have the final voice over him and over Florence who is more than every member of her family combined? It was unfathomable to Tom that she had known these expectations all along and not told him.

And yet each time he came to this conclusion – that the debut tradition was a farce that he refused to participate in it, let alone _marriage_ – Tom’s brain seemed to fracture because to do so would mean losing _her_. Because she’d already elaborated that she will go no further to challenge the status quo beyond introducing him, a newcomer, into the southern debut circle. He can’t just _have_ her, on some level he will have to participate if he wants to keep Florence without using force.

And he _does_ want to keep Florence. Every fiber of his being retaliates against this thought because she does not fit into his plans for immortality and power and a name that will last through the centuries, but Tom had already come to terms with the idea of wanting her when he’d watched her eyes brim over during the Symphony, when she’d moaned his name and come around his fingers with a look upon her face of complete and utter devotion. He’d committed to wanting her when she had redefined magic itself at Samhain, and now he had to live in a world of ambiguity in which after everything – she might be given away to some pathetic, tosser of a boy who’s only quality was his last name. The ground underneath Tom’s feet shakes as fire explodes from his wand.

She’d given him devotion he did not demand or evoke. Devotion given freely, kindness shared willingly, adoration and generosity Tom has never needed or looked for but received none the less because Florence Allman _cares_ for him. It was an insult to think that any man but himself could bring that out in her, could share what he and Florence had shared.

He can still taste her on his tongue, feel her breath against his neck, the rake of her nails across his back. He’s never once spared a thought for any of these things, trivial and common and sickeningly humane. But Tom can hear Florence’s voice as she reads the _Iliad_ reverberating in his skull, that aggravating poem that he exhausts himself analyzing when they are apart, as if the key to _feelings_ themselves were in-between the lines. What does it mean to be Odysseus and wouldn’t it be better to be Agamemnon, the King of Kings? And surely Florence must be Helen, beautiful and other-worldly and worth a thousand ships a hundred times over, but does that make him Menelaus – desperate and frenzied?

Tom knows he will go mad trying to rationalize his emotions, and so he won’t. With a flick of his wand he repairs the column he has just exploded for the one hundredth time.

He is the heir of Slytherin. He is immortal. He _will_ have Florence Allman, even if he must outwardly appear to bend to the childish tradition by which she abides because for now he does not have the prestige to take her by force and get away with it.

 _Perhaps_ , he considers, _it will help me_. The pursuit of a woman was something pure-bloods did, it might convince them of his capability as a leader if they felt like they could relate to him. _Yes, perhaps even her foolish customs can serve my purposes_ Tom convinces himself with a sense of relief so profound that it feels like his next breath is his first.And if the simple route of compliance does not work, he will burn down the system and take what is his when the time is right.

Tom starts to pace again, his magic wild as it crackles through the air around him. _Yes,_ he thinks. _You’ve just been asking the wrong questions._ There must be a manner in which Florence’s traditions can be blended with his goals. Why shouldn’t he have her? Nothing was inherently wrong with desire – after all it was desire for immortality that had pushed him to attempt magic no other wizard had ever conceived. The ring on his hand, the diary in his trunk were both testaments to this. _And if Florence were immortal too_ … none of his plans would have to change, only the follow through has he allowed himself to outwardly partake in whatever custom he needed to in order to secure Florence. Perhaps if she was his in a more _official_ sense, she would be more willing to cave to his desires for magical supremacy over muggles.

For the first time since he’d left America, Tom felt a smile slide onto his face, that sense of purpose that reigned each of his thoughts returning to his mind. Securing Florence will be a game, a challenge to distract himself from the burden of revolutionizing the Wizarding world. And when she was at last his, Tom would want for nothing.

As far as marriage itself, Tom could rationalize this step too. It was a permanent mark, an outward sign of possession that she was his. There is a stab of hunger that ate at Tom as his mind conjured the image of Florence in a white gown like a sacrificial lamb, her caramel waves cascading down her back, _his_ ring – his family ring which beat with a portion of his soul – upon her finger. She would walk to him with that smile that consumed half of her face before a whole host of people, publicly tying herself to Tom, giving herself body and soul to him in an unbreakable bond. It was a hypnotizing thought, and suddenly his pants were too tight, a hardness between his legs that had not been there before. She would be _his_ , and then it wouldn’t matter if he was a pure-blood or from an old wizarding family or not, because once he had her, he did not intend to give her back.

She was already his, and frankly he would do whatever it took to maintain that. So that she always looked at him as if he was the sun and the moon and the stars.

He is still furious with Florence, he could feel his rage within him like a bottled spell. But Tom was familiar with utilizing anger, a skill he had mastered over the years. Florence had manipulated him, had withheld information from him. These were things he would not tolerate, not from anyone, not even her. But he understood the need for secrecy, for the long con. Grindelwald would fail inevitably because he had gone out into the open to soon, revealed his hand before it was secured. Tom was not such a fool, he’d studied the history. No, he was still angry, and Florence would know that anger, but in the end she would be his and this would only be a blimp upon his path to inevitable victory.

Maybe Florence was Helen of Troy – maybe Tom could be both Paris and Menelaus – seducer and eventual conqueror. He had never failed at anything before, there was no reason to believe he would start now… It would be fun, he thought, to watch Florence systematically reject the other boys who wrongly considered themselves worthy of her. He did no doubt that the moment he agreed to attend Florence’s debut, that the decision would be made. She would be his.

With a renewed sense of certainty, Tom turns his back on the carving of his ancestor and makes his way back up the Chamber, levitating himself up through the tunnel and into the bathroom. With a final cleansing charm, he disillusions himself and returns to the Head Boy’s chambers where dreams of caramel and the scent of coffee chase him into sleep.

.

.

.

She is already seated in the Great Hall the next morning when he arrives for breakfast, her tan skin and caramel hair at once noticeable against the paleness of those seated around her. Tom wavers for only half a step, but ultimately he directs his feet towards Florence and the Ravenclaw table. He’d considered ignoring her, punishing Florence with the silence she had used against him so many months ago in her fury after his revelations at Slughorn’s party. But ignoring Florence completely would mean that he was in some way punishing himself – denying himself of the ability to look at her and talk to her and even touch her. Instead he’s opted not to give her a response, to let her sit in silent agony as fear festers at the corners of her mind – that he won’t come to her debut, that he has rejected her offer to take part in Southern tradition.

She notices him only moments after he begins his walk towards her, Florence’s eyes sweeping around the Hall with that wrinkle in her brow that Tom understands to mean she was looking for him. There is flare in his pride which he smothers, determined that his face will show no flicker of the emotions that are still tearing at him, the anger, the curiosity, the maddening desire to press her against a wall and have her moan his name for everyone assembled to hear.

Unlike Tom, Florence’s emotions are etched into ever plane of her face. He reads the flickers of fear and uncertainty coupled with a modicum of relief, and at the center of her umber gaze, the unabashed devotion to him he’d seen when she’d fallen apart on his fingers. She has always been an open book, brash and outspoken, and never before has he appreciated it more than now when he needs to know exactly what she is thinking in order to assure her repentance, her utmost loyalty.

Tom does not speak when he reaches her, instead offering her his hand, palm facing up, and allowing his gaze to drift away from hers towards the Slytherin table. His meaning cannot be misconstrued. At once Florence’s hand slides into his, the welcome jolt of magic trailing up his arm as her magic recognizes his, the tremble in her hand as he pulls her from the Ravenclaw table without a word. Tom swallows the relief that washes through him as his skin prickles where it is in contact with hers, that this connection has not dulled even with his anger, that somehow despite what has evolved between them her body and her magic are still his in some manner.

“Good morning, Tom,” she murmurs, and there is a ripple in his chest when she says his name as soft as a feather, still deep and unknowable as the sea. He can feel her eyes upon his face, her palm is warm against his, but he does not answer. Instead he gives her hand a squeeze before taking his seat at the Slytherin table, ignoring the amused looks from his assembled followers.

“Riddle, Allman, welcome back,” Avery says in that aristocratic voice Tom has not missed over the four weeks they have been apart. “Good holiday?”

Florence is still looking at Tom, most likely waiting for his answer. He gives one.

“Memorable certainly,” he says with a certain amount of airiness that he knows will drive Florence slowly mad. Her hand, which is still within his grasp under the table, quivers again.

“And you, Allman?” Avery continues.

“I had a lovely time, Pyrrhus. It was good to be home.”

“My holiday was fine besides the Malfoy’s Yule celebration,” Avery informs them when no one asks for his opinions in return. “Got a bit overserved and Leo here had to send me home early. Didn’t even make it to the second dance.”

“You were trashed,” Leonidas corrects coolly, and Tom is thankful not for the first time that Pyrrhus Avery had come with his own babysitter in Lestrange because he was certain he would have blown the boy’s head from his shoulders at this point.

“How was America, Riddle,” Druella Shafiq asks, her unfortunate face seeking his attention.

“Fine.”

“Just fine? I’ve always wanted to see MACUSA headquarters,” Druella continues despite not having been asked.

“Yes, Shafiq. Fine.”

Tom does not want to share the details of what has elapsed in America. With Florence. Resolved as he is to have her, their argument already feels irrelevant this morning now that she is by his side – only his residual anger at her dishonesty still flittering within him, even this lessoned with her presence. But these four weeks have altered him, restructured the path he intends to take to glory. How can someone as plain and uninteresting as Druella Shafiq understand the magic of walking across land that sings of Florence Allman, of waking with her in his arms, of watching Florence dress in the moonlight? No, these are thoughts he will keep for himself and himself alone.

Beside him, Tom can feel a shiver of anger run through Florence’s magic as she hears his less than kind description of the holiday, and again he suppresses a smirk. A large part of him wants to continue to rib her before his housemates, to drive her to the fury which makes her magic wild and her tongue a weapon. But another, much smaller, nearly unknowable – yet never the less present – part of Tom wants to pull her from the Great Hall and whisk her away into a broom cupboard and forget his anger, pressing his lips to every inch of skin she will give him like a besotted fool.

Not for the last time he wonders if she has poisoned him, how she could have reduced his impregnable mind to war.

“Phy, did you finish Slughorn’s essay over the break?” Lestrange asks, and the conversation moves on, at last giving Tom the opportunity to look down at Florence. She is staring listlessly at her plate, but upon his shifted position, her eyes turn to meet his. It is like stepping into cool water – meeting Florence’s gaze, and with an inkling of frustration, Tom wonders why it’s so much harder to stay angry at her than any other.

_I am terrified of the magnitude of things I feel for you, Tom Riddle._

“Eat something,” he commands under his breath when he notices she has not touched anything, even her coffee mug empty.

“I’m not hungry,” she returns with an edge of steel in her voice, her eyes never wavering from his own. The words spike the anger that has been simmering all morning, and he grimaces. How it is that she always manages to climb under his skin, Tom will never know.

“Don’t be childish,” he scorns, and without thinking, he pulls his plate towards her, offering her his selection of eggs and bacon. His teeth grind as he reaches for her coffee mug, tapping it with his wand so that it fills with steaming liquid and a splash of cream – just how she prepares it herself. He doesn’t know why he’s assisting her when she’d lied to him and taken control of their future from his grasp, but then the corners of her mouth upturn in the first hint of a smile and all his silent grumblings on internal weakness seem to fade. When she takes a small bite of toast, the smirk that has been threatening all morning spreads across his face.

He does not speak to her in Care of Magical creatures, somewhat unnerved by her ability to make him forget his fury, but it does not stop him from partnering with her or from taking every available moment to touch her. To brush her fingers when she hands him a paper, the trace of a finger along her shoulders as he steps around her to approach the Diricawl they are grooming, tugging gently on a stray strand of hair that gets caught in the crease of her mouth. Florence does not initiate these gestures, but nor does she stop him, emboldening Tom so that by the time class ends, he has abandoned all pretense of help in order to stand behind Florence and run his fingers through her hair.

“You have Transfiguration and then tutoring with Dumbledore?” Tom asks as they walk back up to the castle.

“Yes,” Florence confirms, her voice still soft.

“Meet me after your lesson. At the Head Boy’s chambers. Sixth floor – wooden door beside the statue of Godric Gryffindor.”

“Okay,” she agrees, and her voice is still too gentle. Tom experiences a brief moment of insanity in which he considers telling her that he will of course be attending her debut because to not do so would risk losing her, and he does not like operating in a world uncertainty. But after a breath he regains himself, gives her a curt nod, and then continues to walk Florence to her Transfiguration class without further comment.

.

.

.

It has been some time since he wrote in his diary. Now that it was a Horcrux, Tom had been more careful about removing the wards that he had placed upon his trunk, only lifting them every month or so to update that bit of his soul with the latest updates to his station, those plans which he’d set into motion two years ago with the opening of the Chamber.

There was something fitting to Tom about writing in the diary until graduation. He had purchased the small black journal on a whim during his first trip to Diagon Alley, spending the extra knut on the custom, gold-leafed engravement in the leather. It was the first whim he had ever acted upon, the second being Florence Allman. But when he had chosen it to be his first Horcrux, sealing within it the memories of his time here at the school, he’d been left with some symbolic importance of recording every event that occurred within the walls of Hogwarts while they were his to claim.

_…She was unremarkable in the beginning, but upon half a year’s acquaintance, I now question if there is some space for her within the world I am creating? If perhaps I was too rash to pass judgement on her abilities…_

Tom has found that it is near impossible to put into words Florence’s impression upon his mind. As if the English language failed with each attempt to put her to writing.

_…Florence has admitted that she cares for me, a sentiment I have never looked for, but one which I have no intention of losing. Furthermore she has expressed an interest in marriage, again a tradition I find unfulfilling, yet I cannot deny even to myself that the gesture of making her mine publicly is one that intoxicates me._

_I fully intend for Florence to stand beside me as Britain falls to her knees. I will make her immortal…_

Tom has just dipped his quill into his inkwell, watching as the words sink into the page and into memory, when a knock sounds from the door. Waiting until the last word has disappeared from the page, he gets to his feet and moves across the room to the door, pulling the heavy wooden frame to reveal Florence standing before him, arms wrapped tight around herself.

“I can’t believe I’ve never seen your room before,” she says by way of greeting, stepping past him when he gestures her in, her eyes roving over the spartan décor. There is a bed, a desk, and two chairs huddled before a crackling fire. Recently redecorated in deep emeralds for Tom’s tenure as Head Boy, it had a pleasant, cozy feel that he’d come to appreciate for its solitude, for the fact that it was his and his alone. Florence stands in the center of the room, circling so that no cranny goes unviewed, taking in the neat pile of books, the eagle feather quill. He wishes he could peel back her skin, read those opinions which she is forming of him as she observes his meager possessions. The coat which she has given him hangs across the back of his chair, his copy of _The Iliad_ on his bedside table.

“How was your lesson with Dumbledore?”

“Bad,” she grumbles, her gaze returning to him. Tom smirks.

“Why?”

“Because he wants to move on to sentient transfiguration and I just pointed my wand at this bar of soap I was supposed to be turning into a snail for an hour with nothing happening!” Her voice is sharp and ringing, pieces of her shattered pride in every word. She sighs loudly as Tom walks past her to close his diary and seat himself in one of the two large armchairs. “I forgot how bad I am at Western magic.”

“You’re out of practice,” he concludes, not countering her claim that she is bad at spellcasting. He has said too many times to count that he does not believe in false praise. “And I would surmise that spending two weeks surrounded by your native magic has made the return more difficult.”

“I’m sure you’re right, you always are,” she mutters darkly, but her eyes are still fixed on him and he cannot stop the beating within that cavern in his chest, that space that belongs to her. When he realizes she’s still standing, he reaches for her without comment, exhaling silently as her hands slip into his and she slides into his lap. Her face is presses into his shoulder, her breath warm on his neck, and he gulps down a deep lungful of air, steading his mind.

They sit in silence, Florence wrapped around him like a vine, as if she was always meant to grow here beside Tom. He does not recall why he asked her to come to his chambers, or even if he had a purpose, but after spending every waking and slumbering hour together for two weeks, it has been agony for Tom to spend even part of the day away from her and he cannot find that he is mad Florence is here. The hand on his chest moves every few minutes as if Florence is mapping the ridges of his skin through his shirt. It leaves a trail of warmth across his stomach, and Tom feels a now familiar stirring between his legs.

“I know we have our lesson on Thursday,” Florence says after some time, and she tilts her head so that she can meet his gaze. There is a blush on her cheeks, and he smirks at the imperceptible widening of her pupils. “But if you want to extend the time, I can start to try and teach you some of my land magic.”

“And if I have things to do?”

It is a challenge, one that morphs the affronted look on her face into a small grin.

“You’re not the only one who can memorize schedules, Tom. I know you don’t patrol the halls on Thursday nights.”

He smiles at her then, truly smiles, because it is inevitable that he will give in to her. He cannot even muster disappointment with himself for acquiescing to her, because showing her mercy means he gets what he wants: Florence. And hadn’t he given in to wanting her even before she told him the truth of her debut? Had he not accepted that she would be a part of his life until the ends of time itself? Florence smiles at him in return, and Tom feels the final gasps of his anger before it wilts and dies.

He kisses her and feels again that sense of purpose that directs his every action, her lips the answer to some nameless question that has haunted him since he could remember. She moves to meet him, a whimper escaping her mouth when he slides his tongue to meet hers, hands tightening where he holds her.

But before he can deepen the kiss, he tastes salt upon his tongue, and he pulls away to see tears streaming down her face. Something cold grips him, and _again_ without thinking he wipes at them.

“Florence?”

“I’m so sorry, Tom,” she says, and she lets out a small laugh that is more pitiful than humorous. “I’m sorry I’m crying and I’m _so sorry_ for not telling you about my debut. And I know you’re still mad, but I’ll do whatever you need to make it up to you. I know I was in the wrong for not explaining, but I can’t lose you, not because of my own stupidity.”

Tom’s brain kicks into overdrive at these words, flashes which are wicked in nature flowing through his mind like a dam in his imagination has broken. _Whatever you need._ He sees her skin and her face thrown back in bliss and images that have not happened except in his most depraved dreams, but once more, his thoughts slam to a halt at the image of Florence in a white gown, _his_ ring upon her finger. He does not know why he fixates upon it, only that is must be a prophecy that he will live to make real, the thought more enticing than any before, perhaps barring the image of him as the ruler of the Wizarding World.

“There _is_ something I need.”

The words come from the cave beneath his ribs that Florence has carved stone by stone with her laughter and smiles and overly generous acts of kindness. He takes both of his hands from her body, moving as if in a trance to pull his family ring – the ring that bears nearly a quarter of his soul – from his finger, holding it aloft between them so that the gold band winks in the firelight.

“Keep this safe for me?” He asks, and Florence’s eyes, which are still streaming with tears, seem to widen until he can see nothing but their chestnut hue.

“Tom,” she whispers, and he smirks in the face of her flustered appearance, at the undeniable current of longing in her voice as she stretches the _o_ in his name into two syllables.

“It was my mother’s father’s,” he explains, taking her hand in his own and sliding it onto her finger before she has given him an answer. The sight of the black onyx stone against her bronzed skin makes him so unbearably hard that he has to take a deep breath, blowing a long stream of air out of his nose. _Divinity_. He knows now she was meant for this, to carry his soul upon her skin.

“It’s so cold,” Florence croaks, running a finger across the triangle shaped markings on the stone.

“It holds powerful enchantments,” Tom says vaguely, unable to rip his eyes away from the look on her face – flushed and alert with something profound he does not know but makes him reckless with desire.

A trickle of fear runs through him after a breath when he realizes that this is the third whim he has acted upon, but soon he calms his racing heart with the knowledge that Florence _cares_ for him, that he knows her and her desire to please him. Besides, she will be his for the rest of time. The ring will never be far from his sight.

All the same, he must warn her.

“This ring is precious to me,” Tom murmurs, and Florence swallows thickly, nodding at his words. “The magic in it tied to my magic. Should you lose it, it will do detrimental and irreversible harm to me. I need your assurance you will never take it off, that you will guard it to the best of your abilities.”

Her eyes meet his, and he can see the fire of a challenge in her expression, the wild, fevered look she had worn on Samhain before the flames of the offering. Florence nods once more, the hand bearing his ring forming into a fist as if reflexively preventing it from sliding off the end of her finger, but then her perfect mouth forms into a small frown and her eyes close, severing their connection.

“Tom, I can’t take this,” she whispers. “I’m not worthy to wear this – it’s your only family heirloom.”

He has lived his entire life to hear people tell him he is worthy, great, powerful. It had taken much suffering and convincing of the Slytherin pure-bloods to convince them of his worth, still more cunning and conniving when it came to the Hogwarts staff who now adored him. But Florence has none of these – she does not even know his lineage, any of the truly remarkable bits of magic he has done, and still she finds herself unworthy of bearing his gift. His mark. She, who was born with every privilege that should have been afforded to him, found herself unable to compare to _him_. If ever words had made him feel heady with power, surely these were them.

“I am asking you to wear it,” Tom says with the tone of a command.

“Thank you,” she says, and there are tears in her eyes again as she again touches the ring with the pad of her index finger, light and reverent, and Tom wonders if she can feel the traces of his magic in the stone. The pulse of his soul. He doesn’t understand why she’s crying over the gift, but then again, he rarely understands her tears. Tom _does_ understand, however, that he wants to see her bear his symbol upon her body, and it is this selfish desire which has moved him to act.

“It looks good on you,” he comments, and Florence blushes, the insinuation that his sign upon her skin is handsome reducing her to fiery embarrassment.

“It’s beautiful, Tom.”

He almost tells her then – that he’s planning on coming to her debut, that she will be his for the rest of eternity – but he manages to refrain. If holding that piece of control over her head convinced Florence to wear his ring, what else would he get from her before he gave his answer? The power was enough to make him drunk, and Florence’s kiss which she presses swiftly to the pulse in his neck, only drives him further to madness. He feels lightheaded as her tongue moves across his skin, hazy with the new and fascinating ways in which he can mark her as his own, claim Florence until nothing matters to her but _him._

“The decision may be your parent’s, Florence,” he whispers into her hair, taking her hand which has fisted in his shirt and holding it before his mouth so that the ring is only centimeters from his lips. “But you are mine. Never forget that.”

He presses his lips to the stone and Florence beams at him and at last he gives into the urge to pull her lips back to his, her face home to him.

It had been rash to give in to his anger. Florence’s debut was an unexpected development, but everything that concerned her was unexpected. And now, her obvious desire for him had provided a window to make her his in a manner no one could dispute. The tradition was a nuisance to be certain, but as he kissed her, Tom felt a smirk threaten at the corners of his mouth. There was something transfixing about the image of Clifford Allman giving Tom his daughter, swathed in white like a virgin for the fire. Perhaps by then, his other name will have reached renown should his plans go to order, and any arguments over his worthiness to marry an heiress without a title of his own would be moot.

 _Lord Voldemort_.

Clifford Allman would be so lucky to have him as a son in law.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to the people reading, kudos-ing, and leaving comments. I have an insatiable desire for positive affirmation, and you guys genuinely light up my day!! 
> 
> Everyone stay safe out there :)


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers! I'm not back fully to regular posting, but I just really missed uploading my work so I'm adding a chapter now. Hopefully one more week and then I will be back to my regularly scheduled programming.
> 
> It is always incredible to me to read your comments, to see the insights that each of you bring to the story, your evaluations on my OC's like Florence, and my take on Rowling's characters like Tom. It's humbling when you get down to it that people as intelligent as you guys sit down and analyze my story, and I actually drink up every word of of what you say, so thank you for taking my story seriously and sharing your thoughts!!! 
> 
> Thank you as always for all the kudos and comments and bookmarks and subscriptions! Absolute dolls each of you:) Happy reading!!

**Chapter 29**

“Oh, it’s delightful to have ambitions. I’m so glad I have such a lot. And there never seems to be any end to them–that’s the best of it. Just as soon as you attain to one ambition you see another one glittering higher up still. It does make life so interesting.”

― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

Tom’s ring is cold against her skin despite the fact that she has not taken it off since he gave it to her. It is cold even when she sits before the fire or stands under the steaming shower head for too long, like a small piece of ice pressed against her skin, a constant reminder of the young man that confounds her at every turn. Yet in spite of the chill, it reminds her of Tom each time she looks at it – simple, elegant lines that betray none of the magic within. Hardly a minute goes by when her eyes do not stray to the black surface, to the gold band around her finger.

She’d expected fury, silence, more of those kisses that made her feel isolated in the middle of a tundra. Instead he’d given her his ring – the only item as far as she knew that he had from his family. She could not comprehend, untangle the logic of his thoughts that had led him to presenting her with a gift instead of casting her aside. But Tom had always been an enigma, his masks varying and often impenetrable, and Florence had accepted that maybe she would never understand.

Perhaps he was still angry. Maybe he would find a way to hurt her in the same manner he’d hurt Radella, with cold indifference, luring her into a trap only to abandon her at the final turn. He had not given her an answer that night in his quarters regarding her debut, and the worry within Florence had grown as the days passed until she could hardly sit still, anxious always to be moving, her mind a constant storm with no end in sight.

He had not given her an answer, but he’d given her his ring.

How on earth was she supposed to read that?

Tom’s actions had left her feeling both excited and nauseous until she thought she might explode with the agony of feeling so much. Maybe this was her punishment – to drive her insane through silence, through gestures that were illogical and yet more profound than anything she had ever experienced.

Florence was certain that he, who had scoffed at the thought of her dying, would be the death of her.

She is currently on the way to their weekly lesson, admiring once again the way the onyx stone seemed to absorb any light, matte against the gleaming gold band, a patch of night upon her skin. It had been an exhausting week back, a forceful reminder that while she excelled in some lessons – those which her governess had instructed her – she was woefully incompetent in others. In both Transfiguration and Charms, Florence had sat like a fool waiting for magic to shoot out of the end of her wand, growing redder and redder as the class extended. Defense had been a joke, hexed three times in a row until Merrythought took pity on her and informed her that she could be done for the day.

Tom’s behavior had not helped her, simultaneously more distant and more possessive than ever before, as if returning to Hogwarts had made him more confident in his ability to touch and maneuver her while also more reticent in their communication. He was often silent around her, yet not the silence of those walks they had shared or hours tucked into the Allman family library. Brooding, ruminating over thoughts that Florence could not see because he would not share. She wants to ask, to beg him to give her whatever burden he is carrying so that she might help him, but each time she recalls the warped fury she had seen at Gardiner Manor – the anguish that she might be ripped from him, and Florence loses her nerve. Who was _she_ to demand his thoughts?

The door to the charms classroom squeaks slightly as it opens, and at once Florence sees him, a shadow perched upon Levisor’s desk with a face of cut diamond. There is a loosening in her chest as his gaze meets hers, the same knee-jerk reaction of sudden onset calm as his lips quirk into a smirk, and she smiles, moving through the desks until she stands before him, at last within reach of his arms.

“Florence,” Tom murmurs after a moment, his smirk broadening at the pink tinge that comes to her cheek. It has been hard, spending hours at a time away from him when she had only had only just become accustomed to having him near at every moment, within reach of her wandering hands. The only good being away from Tom has done is reminding her of his astounding beauty when he does come into view, of the sharpness of his jaw, the angles of his face which are perfectly uniformed in their symmetry. His hand reaches out to grip her chin, long, delicate fingers pressing into her face with an iron grip.

“What torture have you got planned for me today, Professor,” she says, trying to smile around his fingers. Tom’s eyes flash, pupils dilating within the sea of midnight blue.

“I was under the impression you wanted to learn western spellcasting, Florence,” he whispers, drawing her face in nearer so the clinical scent of him washes over her. “But if you think it’s torture, I can find other ways to fill my Thursdays.”

“Of course I want to get better,” she says, rolling her eyes slightly. “That’s why I’m at Hogwarts in the first place. I had to barter my future for a chance at a magical education.”

“Explain,” he prods, his lips now seconds from hers, his fingerprints embossing upon her jaw.

“I gave my parents an ultimatum,” she whispers, and her face is entirely too warm, tingling with the magic that is Tom Riddle at such a close proximity. “They would send me to England with my father for a full year of magical education at Hogwarts, and in return I would agree to participate in the debut and give them the choice of my marriage.” Tom’s hand shivers here, lips whitening at the mention. “If they said no, I refused to participate, and I would end up dying alone an old maid.”

“Your entire future on the line so you could pursue magic,” he hisses, a smirk spreading across his face.

“I did get what I wanted, in the end.”

Tom kisses her lightly upon these words, the electricity of his touch coiling throughout her body with delicious heat, chaste and soft and completely at odds with the way he is holding her. Another enigma.

It is odd that she is just now telling Tom this, after everything they have shared. Yet at the same time, not odd at all considering she has spent the past four months attempting to avoid any mention of her debut around him. How naïve she had been when she first arrived at Hogwarts, how naïve she still was, and Tom hovered in the center of it all, the answer to her magical inabilities, and now also to her happiness.

“I admire anyone with a desire to better themselves magically. Most wizards settle for what is taught to them in lessons, and it is why many of them who could be great are in the end only passable,” he murmurs against her lips before releasing her. There is an edge of steel to his voice, a sign that he truly believes this to the depth of his bones. Florence feels slightly breathless, bereft without the press of his palm to her skin.

“Ah, so that’s why you like me,” Florence muses, dropping her bag to the floor and stepping away from him. Tom gives her a withering look that does not erase the softness in his eyes. He doesn’t rise to her bait, the controlling Head Boy that he is, but Florence must still stifle her need to hear him say that he too feels like he is on fire when they share the same space, that her touch was like being flung into space to move amongst the cosmos.

 _I want whatever it is you are_.

Loud? American? Brunette? A combination of the three? And yet she knows he will not speak – compliments like trees in the desert when it came to Tom. Florence does not begrudge him his silence, despite the pining in her pride to hear him elaborate upon those things that she is to him. If she had wanted someone normal and uninteresting, she would not be here.

The lesson is brutal. Tom sets a relentless pace, asking for Florence to cast spell after spell, calling out incantations one after the other with barely a pause in between. He asks for a stunner, only to throw a barrage of curses at her out of nowhere, forcing Florence to cast a shield or else risk being eviscerated. Her body collects bruises, her breathing becomes short, and still Tom does not stop, occasionally demanding that she widen her stance or adjust her grip.

If she weren’t so exhausted or annoyed, she would be impressed with his ability to notice the smallest impurities in her casting, his attention to detail incomparable. _Tuck your elbow into your side. Keep your eyes where you are aiming. Say it with more conviction!_ These commands come between orders to hex or charm the practice dummy which stands twenty feet across the room.

Florence’s brain begins to feel sluggish as the minutes tick by, her breath short, magic erratic as her pulse. Tom nor any other teacher has ever asked for such varied magic from her. It requires every ounce of her concentration, her mind straining to focus only on that swirl of magic within her stomach – magic that is her own and separate from the myriad of wards and enchantments that sing in every stone around her – so that she can perform the spells she is being commanded to.

“Summoning charm,” Tom barks, and his voice is like thunder, hands clasped behind his back. Florence’s hand adjusts on the end of her wand, ignoring the trickle of sweat that rolls down the crevasse of her spine. It is as her wand is whipping through the air, her lips forming around the now familiar word, that Florence’s already exhausted attention latches onto the stray curl which has separated from the rest of Tom’s perfect waves, a strand of chocolate smearing his porcelain skin.

“ _A-accio_ ,” she stutters, but nothing happens.

“Summoning charm!” Tom repeats, and his voice is lower, hands moving to rest beside him as his face darkens. Florence swallows, closing her eyes momentarily and searching again for the heat of her own magic, but floundering as she instead pictures the delicate bend in Tom’s wrists, the bow of his lip.

“Florence, I won’t ask again.”

She tries, and fails. The dummy resolutely still on the other side of the classroom.

It happens so quickly that Florence does not even have time to think, her mind already pushed to the brink of exhaustion.

One moment she is staring at the mannequin, her pride a flaming inferno within herself as she imagines burning the wooden figure to the ground, the next her wand has clattered to the floor, a shield thick and impenetrable standing around her.

Blue flames obscure her vision, chimeras and phoenixes and fire drakes licking at the outside of her defense, seeking with beak and talon to gain access to her. Florence’s chest feels like it might explode, the air around her an oven as she desperately attempts to suck oxygen into her lungs. She cannot remember calling upon the magic around her, and yet as she stares upon the flames which have now circled her, Florence knows that this shield did not come from within. It is too strong, too powerful to be something she had made herself. And then, as soon as it had started, the flames are gone and Florence’s hands fall to her sides in defeat, wand still abandoned on the floor.

Tom is upon her in seconds, his lips crashing into hers, frantic and carnivorous and it takes all of Florence’s remaining strength to lift her arms and wrap them around his head. He is pressing her back, his hands claws against her hips and waist, any air that had been between them gone as they meld into one, and still her mind is reeling, clutching at him as if he could save her from his own attack.

“How did you do it?” He pants, and his arms are like steel bands encircling her, threatening to crush her ribs. “Your shield, how did you do it?”

“I – I don’t know, I didn’t even speak, I didn’t call upon the magic.”

“I know,” Tom assures her, kissing her again as if he cannot decide whether he wants to suck her lips from her face or hold a press conference, leaving Florence trapped in the tornado of his onslaught. “Then how did you do it?”

“Tom, I’m not sure,” Florence begins again, but he releases her before she can continue, pacing in front Florence like an animal released from a cage.

“No, _think_ about it, Florence.”

“I am thinking about it!”

“You’re not,” he nearly shouts, but his eyes are starving, no hint of anger anywhere within the animated lines of his face. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You just utilized magic that is not your own without even trying.”

“I don’t know how I did it,” she repeats. But now she is coming to understand, and there is a glow within her stomach that was not there before. “I’ve never done that before.”

“Guess then.”

“I was tired and I was struggling to find the difference between my core magic and the magic around me, and when you attacked…” Florence looks around her wildly. “I don’t know, it feels like the magic of Hogwarts just responded to what I intended, which was to protect myself from your fire.”

“Incredible,” Tom whispers, his pacing coming to a halt. For a moment he is still, and then he turns and pulls Florence into his arms again. She is pink in the face at his compliment, shaking as his hands press into her back because it is another word he cannot take back, one that she will save and cherish alongside his smiles.

“Were you thinking about Hogwarts’ magic before I attacked you?”

“No, I was just angry that I couldn’t locate my own magical signature. I suppose I recognized that there was magic around me, but I don’t think I was expressly considering it.”

“And have you ever seen your father, perhaps Adsila, perform native magic without speaking?”

Florence pauses here, thinking back to her lessons with her great-grandmother. No, Adsila had always sang, but Florence suspected that was due to the tradition of it, the lilting in her voice that continued on a song that had been passed on for generations. But her father – hadn’t he silently released Albion from the roots of her attack mere weeks ago? Florence had been so consumed by Tom’s gaze that she had not paid attention, but as she considered, she felt more certain than ever that Clifford had not spoken at all.

“My father does, but I’ve never thought about it until now.”

Tom nods, and then falls silent, his eyes wide as he stares over her shoulder. Florence is familiar with this gaze, as if he is no longer present before her while he considers some idea that is larger than she or him.

“Tom,” she finally says after a moment. His eyes return to her slowly, as if he had been far beyond the mountains that surrounded Hogwarts and the return journey was delayed. “I know I told you I would try and teach you land magic, but _please_ don’t expect me to be able to teach you that. I don’t want to disappoint you, and I really don’t know how I just conjured that shield.”

Tom ignores her statement, instead pressing his lips to her forehead before summoning her wand silently and handing it to her. Florence sticks it into her pocket, her mind still grappling with Tom’s enthusiasm, with the magic she has done.

“Would you still like for me to teach you?”

Tom smirks.

“Just teach me what you can.”

Florence nods, and then with a small smile of her own, approaches the front of the room and collects her bag. Tom watches her move without comment, and Florence’s face turns a deep red at the heat she finds there.

“If you don’t mind, I think I might prefer to teach you outside.”

Tom does not argue with her, and a moment later he has returned the tables and chairs to their uncharred state before taking her hand and setting off down the corridor. They do not speak as they walk, each lost to their own thoughts, but every hundred feet or so Tom’s hand tightens upon Florence’s. She wonders if it’s a reminder she is there, or if he is once more swept away by some vision she cannot see. Perhaps both.

The night air is cold, a harsh wind buffeting them both as the step into the darkness. She casts a light at the end of her wand while Tom blasts a path through the snow, leading them down to the edge of the lake which laps gently at the shore, reflecting the first few outcroppings of stars above them. Pulling her cloak closer around her to provide even a modicum of warmth in the frigid January air, she fingers the piece of paper in her pocket.

“How would you like to proceed?” Tom asks, but there is a quiver in his voice of undeniable longing, excitement like the hum of an orchestra leading to the main crescendo. Florence smiles at him – unable to resist his allure here as the wind rustles his hair, the moon glinting off eyes that are black as coal in the dark.

“Would you mind clearing a ring of snow? We need access to the Earth.”

With a flourish of his wand, Tom blasts the snow from the ground without a word, his face rapt with impatience as pale strands of dead grass previously frozen in ice reveal themselves. Again, her hand closes around the piece of paper in her pocket.

“We’re going to start small. Not,” Florence rushes to add before Tom interrupts her, “because I think you cannot perform land magic, but because I’m unsure how to teach anything bigger than this.”

Tom’s smile is radiant, fitting to rise and nestle amongst the stars that twinkle far above them. Something within Florence aches, a maddening desire to capture the expression, because the idea of walking down the stairs at her debut not to find him in the crowd looking at her seems like a thought worse than death.

“We’re going to be working with this,” Florence says, unable to tear her eyes from his as she reaches into her pocket and withdraws the item she has carried with her in secret from the Allman estate. It rests on her palm, a small, thin beige disk that Tom has to step forward to see in the darkness. His face widens with surprise.

“A Dittany seed,” he confirms.

“Yes, It was the first lesson Adsila taught me.”

“And you think growing a tree is a small task?”

“Not a tree,” Florence laughs, because of course Tom with his big ideas would jump so far ahead. “A seedling.”

She passes the seed to him, watching as he takes it between his thumb and forefinger and holds it up to the light.

“What is a seed?” Florence asks, casting the drying charm that Tom had taught her in New York before seating herself cross legged on the ground. Tom’s brow furrows, glancing harder at the tiny object in his hand. There is a twinge of relief that he does not laugh at her for asking this question, that he seems to seriously ponder an answer to her query.

“It is the reproductive unit of a plant,” Tom says after a moment with the easy confidence of someone unaccustomed to being wrong, his eyes at last peeling away from the seed to meet Florence’s face. She cannot hide the smirk that threatens.

“Yes, what else?”

“I don’t like trick questions Florence,” Tom says, taking a seat before her.

“It’s not a trick, I need you to understand what you are handling before you attempt to work with it.”

“I fail to understand how my definition was insufficient.”

“Because you have only told me what the seed is _now_ , in its present moment,” Florence presses. “If I asked what you are, I doubt your answer would be ‘a man.’ You are more than an amalgamation of your limbs – you are a wizard and a scholar and someone who shapes the lives and experiences of hundreds of people around you. To simply say you are a man is insufficient to accurately capture your effect, your potential, _and_ your present physical state.”

“Then tell me what a seed is,” Tom demands, but his voice has regained the excitement it held moments before, and he leans in slightly towards her, as if hanging off each of her words.

“A seed is _life itself_. It is mother and father and child all at once, the beginning of the cycle and the end,” she whispers, and around her she can feel the magic in the earth stirring at her words, seeds long buried beneath the frost answering her call. “A seed is a prison, nature and nurture simultaneously, land tamer, rock breaker, a genetic time capsule perfected through the generations. Seeds are passengers of the wind and food for the starved and a promise of rebirth after the fire.”

Tom’s face is impassive as she speaks, but Florence sees the gleam in his eye, the twitch of his hand as his fingers curl around the tiny spore – as if it is somehow precious to him. Florence herself feels the fervor in her words, Adsila’s voice echoing in the cavern of her mind as she relays the verses to the young man before her.

“A seed is like a young witch or wizard, possessing its own small portion of magic, that if cared for and nurtured, it can blossom into great and unfathomable power. Tonight I want you to try and call upon the magic that exists within this seed, to expediate the germination process.”

“And how do I do that?” There is hunger in his voice now, undeniable in every syllable.

“You must _know_ the seed, and then you must call upon it. If your understanding is correct, it will hear you, and it will use your magic as a conduit for the action you request.”

“There is no spell?”

“No,” Florence confirms. “As you progress the words will come naturally to you – but I’ve written something for you to try and use tonight.”

Florence pulls from her pocket the piece of paper she has been withholding all evening, passing it over to Tom who unfolds it like it is a sacred relic. She feels the flush that spreads across her face, uncertain if anyone has ever cared so strongly for something she had done. Florence had spent the better part of an afternoon crafting the phrases, weighing each word, researching long and hard in every herbology book she could lay hands upon. In the end, however, she had translated those words that had nestled within her heart, which brought music to the tip of her tongue.

“I translated it into Latin for you. I know you can’t speak Cherokee, but I thought perhaps having it in another language might assist you with disassociating from you own magic and focusing on the innate magic within the seed.”

“Do I need to sing?”

Florence shrugs, a sense of unease sliding through her. It was hard to pass this verbal knowledge onto Tom – it had not been written down by Adsila, she had learned from watching and listening and eventually mimicking. Transferring the knowledge into something he could comprehend was far more challenging that she had imagined.

“I do not think so, but I’m unsure.”

She watches as long delicate fingers tear apart the grass, a murmured spell warming the frozen earth enough to create a hole in which to place the seed, impatient to finally begin. Florence feels its magic, small and pulsing like a pearl within its shell, her earlier murmurings still hanging upon the air, revealing to her the magic that swirled within every molecule.

“Whenever you are ready,” Florence instructs Tom when he sits back. “Think of what you know of the seed, of what you want to have happen, and then speak with intention.”

Tom nods, his face set with granite determination, closing his eyes and pressing his palms to the dirt on either side of the hole he has just dug. Florence releases a silent stream of air too before closing her eyes, dedicating her senses to the magic around her and the boy who would attempt to claim them.

It was some time later that he spoke, the Latin halting and unfamiliar upon his tongue, but strengthening as the moments ticked by, at last settling into a steady rhythm where his words whistled from between his lips in barely more than a whisper. Florence could feel him, the magic within Tom like an inferno, raging to be released, and she could feel too the magic within the seed and the earth and the air that swirled with wintery coldness. It feels different here, far from the songs of Adsila and her people, but familiar in its methods, in the caresses of magic that are not her own. She relishes in it – in the power she has here, in what she is sharing with Tom.

Florence hears when he starts the phrase she has written for him over, the seed still nothing more than a glowing ember of magic within the soil. _When was the last time he did not succeed on a first try_ Florence wants to ask, but holds her tongue allowing him to concentrate upon the task set to him. She remembers sitting with Adsila much in the same manner as she now sat with Tom, her voice reedy in her youth, keening into the air as she sang for birth and life and the promise of growth. It was her words, her original song which she had translated for Tom, and there is a blaze within her chest at the thought that she has shared these words with him too, another slice of her life that she has revealed.

It is after an unknowable amount of time that Florence feels the change, the shift within the magic around them as Tom’s voice hums to life. She can hear the anger in his tone, the fury that the magic around him is unresponsive, and then she feels the ripples of power as the magic inside him seems to explode, bursting across the snow like an invisible bomb. The seed shudders, and then Florence feels it, the magic that can only be growth, the birth of new life that reduces her to tears because it’s _beautiful_ , because she’s felt this a hundred times, and she will never love something as much as she loves the shuddering first breath of spirits around her.

Florence opens her eyes, and through the moonlight she can see it, the small snakelike sprout that is clawing its way through the grass, two miniscule silver leaves unfurling to the world as if saying hello. She cannot stop the gasp that leaves her system because already the seedling is several inches tall – taller by far than anything Florence had summoned upon her first try – before the seedling at last quivered to a halt, twisting slightly in the breeze.

Tom’s eyes open slowly, his chest rising and falling with deep, rasping breaths, forehead covered with sweat. She’s never seen him look so strained, but the desperate expression upon his face lights something with her because _she_ has reduced him to this heaving mass, _she_ has revealed secrets of magic to Tom that he had never known.

His eyes fixate on the tiny plant like it is a key that he has just discovered, an answer and a prayer and every promise known to man. Florence can feel the magic of the seedling still, pure, and new and mixed with the thunderous combination that can only be Tom. She fights the frown that threatens her lips because there is a nagging suspicion in her mind, an apprehension that Tom did not cultivate the seed’s own magic as she had intended, but instead used his innate ability to force the seed to sprout. But Florence cannot bring herself to question it – he has still managed to connect with magic that is not his own, and that accomplishment is enough it itself.

“Is that what you intended,” Tom pants, still short of breath after his exertion.

“You’re incredible,” Florence responds by way of confirmation, her eyes fixated not on the plant between them, but on the puffs of mist that appear with each exhale as the warmth inside him collides with the winter air, like a dragon smoking before the release of fire.

“Why am I so exhausted?”

“It is hard to call upon magic that is not your own, especially the first time. But it will get easier with repetition.”

Tom nods, his gaze returning to the tiny sapling. He is smiling and Florence thinks again of the childlike joy he fights so hard to withhold, but which melts every inch of her being. _This_ is the Tom she wants, not the Tom Riddle who kisses her with ice and fractures with anger.

“We should take it with us,” Florence murmurs. “It will die in the cold – Dittany isn’t meant for climates such as this.”

Pulling his wand from his robe pocket, Florence watches as he traces the tip of the wood in a circle around the sapling, the earth lifting from the ground, the grass transfiguring into a simple clay pot. Seamless and mess-free planting that makes Florence beam with delight at his mastery. He takes the seedling from midair, extending his hands to offer it to Florence, but she shakes her head with a thin smile.

“Keep it, it’s yours. You imbedded some of your magic within the seedling, you should be the one to grow it.”

Tom nods and gets to his feet, reaching with his free hand to pull Florence to hers. His palm is gritty with particles of soil, and she flushes when she realizes how much she enjoys the feel of the dirt on his skin. But her mind cannot fixate on this detail for long because seconds later his hand has closed around her hair, tilting her head back so that he can press his lips to hers, a beacon of warmth within the cold.

“You never cease to amaze me,” Tom says, his cheekbones, sharp as razor blades, glowing with reflected light. Florence smiles at him, taking his chin between his fingers and kissing him again, a thank you for his belief in her, for redefining her world in so many ways she had lost count.

“You will teach me more,” he adds, certain in his control over her. Florence laughs into the breeze which carries the echo out over the black lake. A wry smile hangs from Tom’s lips at the sound.

“So long as you continue to teach me more magic. I want a fair trade.”

He takes her hand, his thumb brushing over the ring he placed there. Florence feels a zing of magic shoot up her arm, as if the enchantments in the stone recognize him, and she flushes.

“Who am I tonight?” He asks, and his voice has taken on a hollow, echoing quality that is rare in its defenselessness.

“Achilles,” she breathes, because he’s magnificent and god-like and there is no other choice in the end. “Of course you’re Achilles.”

“The hero of the story who is not the hero,” Tom muses, the wry smile flickering into the hint of a frown.

“The warrior who made the wrong choice,” Florence explains. “But made the most if it anyway.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha.... remember that ring he gave her... that has a quarter of his soul in it....I'm sure that won't affect anything...

**Chapter 30**

    " _I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, and I have seen your fears. All you desire is possible, but all that you dread is also possible... Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a daughter... Least loved, now, by the girl who prefers your friend... Second best, always, eternally overshadowed...._ "

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

The letters pile up before her, each unopened upon the Ravenclaw table waiting for Florence to overcome the nausea in her stomach and open them. It is a rare free period, and Florence has let herself into the Great Hall between meals, relaxing into the knowledge that she will have this space to herself for a few hours before dinner. She’d been saving them until she had time to really read them, but looking at the three scrolls, she feels a tremor of longing that no words will be able to bring, for the song of her land, for the welcoming embraces of her brothers.

Florence knows who they’re from – the familiar red wax seal of Albion, the tightly wound parchment of her father, and an obnoxious gold ribbon that could only be Tallulah. She reaches for Tallulah’s first, assured that her friend at least could have nothing cutting to say to her.

_My Dearest Florence,_

_How is it being back in England? Cold I imagine. It was so lovely to have you home, even if it was only for a few short days. You’re mother told me that your dress fitting is in February, and she has invited me to come, so at least there is that to look forward too. I hope that sometime soon your companion Lizzie can come visit us as well. She really was a wonderful girl, and I’ve never met anyone with taste in fashion on the same level as mine, even if she’s not as good at riding as me._

_You never did tell me anything about that quiet, brooding young man Tom Riddle. He couldn’t take his eyes off you every time you entered the room – and believe me, I was watching. I thought Forsythe was going to punch Tom he was so jealous about all the attention you were giving the boy. My poor brother – you’ll have to save him at least one dance in May._

_Will Tom be coming to our debut? I know your mom can be such a stickler for family titles, but Tom seemed enraptured enough by you it might be enough to melt even cold Eudora. I’m personally hoping that Dallas Parker will be there. He should be getting an invitation as a Spectre resident, and he’s a good dancer._

_Write to me with all the details and of course with how much you miss me. Sending you lots of love my sweet, Florence!_

_Tallulah Blount_

Florence felt an unruly smile spread across her face as she finished reading the letter. What she would give to have Tallulah here now, to discuss how she should proceed with Tom.

It had been nearly three weeks since they had returned from America, the end of January only a few days away, and still he was silent on the invitation to her debut. It took everything within her not to demand an answer from him each time they shared the same space, unable to justify to herself the right to know when she had not deemed to tell him in the first place. His ability to carry on as if a knife was not hanging by a thread over Florence’s head drove her to the edge of insanity.

The anxiety over his answer resulted in her inability to sleep, slipping from her bed and nestling onto one of the widow seats, fighting to calm her breathing as worry ate at her every nerve ending until she was sweating and burning. On more than one occasion, she had left the common room all together, incapable of staying still despite the fact that it was strictly against school rules to wander the corridors at night. She’d moved like a shadow across the stone floors until light spilled through the windows, returning to the Ravenclaw common room with bags under her eyes and a pounding headache.

The lack of sleep was also resulting in poor class performance, even in those subjects like ancient runes and arithmancy where she excelled. The words and symbols seemed to blur together on the page no matter how often she rubbed her eyes, exhaustion taking its toll on her senses. Her magic had simply seemed to stop working in any of her practical classes, and her private tutoring sessions with both Dumbledore and Tom had been nothing short of dismal. While Dumbledore had seemed mildly concerned by her haggard appearance, Tom had pressed her to her limits, reminding Florence whenever she stopped to catch her breath of her desire to be better. The fatigue had culminated in a stray bite from a Venus flytrap in Herbology while she dozed standing up, Florence sent to the Hospital Wing for a poison antidote, escorted by a silent Tom Riddle who was the cause of her peaking anxiety in the first place.

Madam Louise had tutted over the fang marks in her shoulder, dabbing a rancid smelling yellow cream upon the open wound while Tom sat in the chair beside her bed, his midnight eyes never once straying from Florence’s care. If she had not been on the edge of delirium, she would have mocked him for looking for mistakes in the matron’s care, as if somehow he was now a qualified nurse alongside all of his other accomplishments.

“Thank you for delivering her, Mr. Riddle,” the Matron said after Florence’s shoulder had been bandaged. “You may return to your classes.”

“I have free period now, ma’am,” he’d replied in that cool, head boy voice that made something in Florence’s abdomen clench. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay with Florence.”

The nurse had bustled away, pulling the curtains behind her and leaving Florence at Tom’s mercy.

“I thought you were supposed to be good a Herbology,” he mused, his voice dropping an octave, his fingers which never strayed from her skin for long peeling back the collar of her shirt to run across the bandage. Florence winced slightly at the touch.

“I am, I just wasn’t paying attention.”

“Are you alright, Florence?” He asks, and there is thunder in his eyes that is not entirely innocent, as if he knows he is responsible for the bruises under her eyes, for the paleness of her skin.

“Fine, Tom,” she whispers, and he smirks, his hands moving from her shoulder to cup her face, his lips finding hers for a moment in a chaste kiss before he motions her to scoot over and he clambers into the bed next to her.

“ _Tom_ ,” Florence hisses, glancing between his smirking visage and the curtains behind which Madam Louise can be heard pacing. “What if she comes to check on me?”

“I’ll obliviate her,” he says with such casualty that Florence slaps him on the stomach without thinking.

“Don’t joke about that,” she whispers, but Florence cannot stop herself from smiling at him anyways, at his willingness to risk his pristine image to pull her close to him. Tom’s eyes are like molten gunmetal, pouring into hers until a sense of calm settles over her that she has not felt in weeks.

“Should I cast a silencing charm?” He whispers into her ear, one arm wrapping around her shoulder while the other hand strays to the bottom of her skirt, his fingers dragging back up her thigh to the juncture between her legs.

Florence does not remember saying yes, but she wakes an hour later alone upon the bed, her skirt righted once more, boneless, a bustling Madam Louise releasing her from the Hospital Wing.

Yet that one moment of calm was not to last, her anxiety quickly returning. It was Tom’s unreliable nature, his words against his actions which were driving her to madness. _I didn’t ask for this._ _I am to be expected to compete for you? As if you are some kind of prize?_ Yet he had given her his ring, he kissed her like she was oxygen and he was asphyxiating. It was a puzzle whose pieces did not fit together, madness driving her down deeper and deeper spirals.

The only respite from his insistent whisperings in her mind resulted when she was nestled in his arms, when the closeness of him, the familiarity of his touch, and the smile he saved only for her could quell the psychosis of her thoughts. In a desperate bid to avoid the waking nightmare of Tom’s possible rejection, it drove her to him, nearly every second of her day outside of lessons and sleep spent within reach of Tom’s grasp.

“What’s gotten into you?” Lizzie asked as Florence scrambled to pack her belongings after class one day, rushing to scour the halls for Tom.

“Nothing, what are you on about?” Florence said, trying to sound casual, knowing that her words would not erase the exhaustion etched into every curve of her skin.

“Even Tom isn’t worth losing sleep over,” Lizzie said quietly, laying a hand on Florence’s arm, for a moment summer blue eyes meeting umber. Florence tore her gaze away, tears threatening. “I told you a long time ago you needed to be careful around him. He’s doing something too you, and it’s hurting to watch.”

“I can’t talk about it,” Florence choked, ripping her arm from Lizzie’s grasp and nearly running from the classroom, fighting with all of her mind to suppress the apprehension that threaten to submerge her. How could Lizzie ever understand, how could anyone understand? She thought she might… it was really possible that she had grown to… but Florence couldn’t allow herself to think of _that_ word, _that_ emotion. She just needed to find him, to be near him, to press her skin against his and to feel that magic that no one else could replicate.

Florence quickly came to live for the instances in which his chocolate waves and porcelain jaw came into view from behind a bookcase in the library, or upon opening the door to an unused classroom. She felt as if fireworks were set off within her when his face would turn to meet hers, the subtle softening in his features that only Florence could know as their eyes meet somewhere in infinity, because surely, _surely_ he would not look at her like that if he intended to decline her offer, he would not press his lips to the ring he had presented her if he was going to push her away? Every moment without him was a withdrawal, every moment with ambrosia and nectar.

Spending as much time together as they were, Florence became acquainted with the Slytherins who always seemed to tag along. Beyond Pyrrhus, who she had grown to like now that he no longer tried to impress her, and Leonidas, who was quippy once his surly outer layer was peeled back, Florence found each of Tom’s companions lacking. Everard Nott was dry and plain as kindling, Druella and Teresa no better. Julianne Grady, the girl who had accosted Florence during the strange meeting she had accidentally interrupted, had a streak of cruelty in her that revolted Florence to the point of nausea, and the rest of the intermixed tagalongs couldn’t drop their pure-blooded supremacy for long enough for Florence to get a read on their characters.

The only thing they held in common was a reverence for Tom, which Florence reasoned was understandable. He was Head Boy, handsome, and could perform magic far beyond any of them. She herself was swept up in his aura, she couldn’t hold it against anyone else for feeling the same. All the same, she found them more and more unlikeable, and any moments Tom dedicated to his band of loyal followers an insult of the highest order to Florence when he could have been spending time with _her._ Tom seemed to recognize Florence’s displeasure when he would elect to slip away from his seat beside her to answer some silent call, a gleam in his eyes she couldn’t name.

“Where are you going?” She would ask as Leonidas and Everard and others waited a polite distance away. Tom’s eyes would sweep to hers, his pale lips upturning in a smile.

“I have something to attend too,” he would always respond, vague and indefinite and Florence always wanted to ask but found she couldn’t. She – who had not told him of her debut – had no right to demand anything of Tom, even if every time he walked away she felt as if her ribs were compressing her into nothingness.

Florence would reach for him, grabbing a fistful of his robe or emerald sweater with the hand upon which his ring lay, pulling his face in for a chaste kiss before releasing him to the Slytherins, marking him as he had marked her.

Her annoyance with his band of followers had reached its peak only the day before in Hogsmeade. Tom had found her after a moments separation in the crowded aisles of Honeydukes as she perused for the perfect gift for Radella’s upcoming birthday, his faithful band of Slytherins waiting at the end of the row.

“Florence,” he murmured, placing a hand on the small of her back and turning her slightly to look at him. “I have to return to the castle. There is something that needs my attention.”

She eyed him, the blankness on his face, the polished voice he used because others could hear them, before her gaze traveled to the people huddled at the end of the aisle.

“And will _they_ be accompanying you?” She asked so that even dense Druella Shafiq could hear.

“Yes, it concerns them.”

“But not me.”

Florence did not even attempt to keep her wounded pride from her voice, nor the anxiety that had begun to bubble in her chest because if he could leave her _now_ , what was to stop him from leaving her all together?

“It’s a project I’ve been working on,” Tom murmured, one of his perfectly sculpted brows rising slightly, as if goading her into anger. It worked.

“Tom, you know I’d love nothing more than to help you with anything you’re working towards.”

“You can’t.”

“Oh, but _Druella Shafiq_ can?” Florence hissed, and she knew her face must be cherry red from the smirk Tom sent her. “I may be bad at magic, but she makes me look like Albus Dumbledore.”

“My project is not magical in nature, do you really think I would ever need assistance from anyone if it were?”

“No,” Florence responded bitterly, peeling her eyes away from him because her chest was aching and she didn’t want to fight, and she certainly didn’t want him leaving her to spend time with such uninteresting and unkind people that he seemed to insist on having around. “But I don’t understand why you can’t tell me.”

“I am trying to reclaim a family heirloom,” Tom said at once, acquiescing to her request seemingly without a thought. “The pure-blood families have been assisting me in my search.”

“Tom…” Florence breathed, and her eyes flicker to the ring on her finger, her hand clenching into a fist as if to remind herself to protect his gift at all costs. “If it’s a money thing, you know I’d help you look, I have my own allowance, I wouldn’t even have to ask my family…”

“It is not financial in nature,” he assured, a tightness slipping into his voice at the insinuation. “It is a priceless artifact that was lost nearly twenty years ago, most likely purchased by one of wizarding England’s old families. My fellow Slytherin’s have been using their familial connections to peruse personal collections, and Nott believes he may have a lead.”

This explanation soothed Florence’s pride slightly, for even she could admit that with all of her wealth and affluence, her connections would not get her into anyone’s private treasury on this side of the Atlantic. All the same, she felt the immature sense of sadness that she would not spend the rest of their day together, insatiable as she was to be around him.

“You’ll let me know if there is anything I can do?”

“Of course,” he murmured with a smirk, the hand on her back tightening on her waist. Even through her winter cloak, Tom’s touch was like fire.

“Riddle, are we going?” Shafiq called down the aisle, earning her a stare from Tom that could melt metal, but before he could remark on her impatience, Florence had stepped before him.

“ _Tom_ will be coming in a moment,” Florence replied, her voice colder than it had ever been. The girl’s face darkened at the reminder that Florence was the only person afforded the use of the Head Boy’s first name. Florence knew she was about to say something rash, but her exhaustion and fused nerves and all-consuming jealousy had become too much. She would have to speak, she had never been good at hiding her emotions, and Druella Shafiq was just on the wrong end of her mouth.

“And might I suggest you throw out that ridiculous chocolate bar you purchased for him? I heard you discussing with Teresa, and while I may not be able to curse you satisfactorily, I can assure you that I will make your life a living hell if you so much as attempt to _walk_ next to Tom for the remainder of the year. If you are under the assumption that I invited Tom to my family estate over the holiday because we are _acquaintances_ then you would be sorely mistaken, and I’d hate for you to embarrass yourself any more than you already have.”

“Florence,” Tom whispered into her ear, a low sound as his breath tickled her skin, his hand slid around the back of her neck to soothe her, thumb and forefinger pressing into the tendons there. She turns to look at him, shocked slightly by the smile which has torn across his face, the light dancing in his eyes. “It’s all right, she is nothing.”

“I know,” Florence whispered back, “but she should remember that you are mine.”

“Of course,” he agreed easily, and there was hunger in his gaze that made everything in her stomach clench.

He’d given her a look that could burn, and for a moment Florence thought he might consent to stay with her, but then he’d pressed his lips to hers and stepped from her grasp and she’d been left alone with tears swimming in her eyes.

Shaking her head in an attempt to clear her mind of these thoughts, returning once more from memory to her seat in the Great Hall, Florence reaches for her next letter, selecting her father’s at random. It is surprisingly short, the handwriting somewhat slanted as if written in a hurry.

_Florie,_

_I just got back to England and wanted to shoot you off a quick letter before I return to the Ministry. Two shipments of Dittany arrived safely in Portsmouth during the Holiday, but it means we will be up to our ears in brewing for the next few weeks. If you don’t hear from me, that is why._

_It was a joy to have you home, and I of course am looking forward to seeing you in May for your debut. I can’t say how happy your mother was when you agreed to participate, even if we did have to do some hard bargaining._

_You are blossoming into quite the young lady – I was astonished by your growth just after a few months away, and all of America better hold onto their hats when you get back from your year abroad._

_Don’t blow up a caldron and lots of love,_

_Dad_

Her father’s letter was conspicuously silent as it pertained to Tom, but Florence attempts to push these thoughts away. He had already agreed to allow Tom to attend the debut. For now, that was enough.

Reaching for the last letter, Florence releases a sigh. She felt an entirely different form of anxiety surrounding Albion’s letter. Their time in New York had been kind, but strained after their confrontation, and she knew that her brother was battling with himself as much as he was battling with her to be both protective and supporting. Unable to put off opening the scroll, she breaks the red wax seal and uncurls the parchment.

_Hey Flor,_

_If you’re reading this, well then that is a win for me. I know you’re still mad at me for what I said about your boyfriend (can we at least admit that’s what he is now?), but you know it was all out of love for you._

_I have to admit, even though it’s not about me, I didn’t expect you to come back after only a few months away so grown up. You’re still my little sister, and I guess it shook me a bit more than I care to admit to see you performing all this magic and running around with friends and a boy I didn’t know. You know I want you to be happy, and it was obvious you are happy, and I just felt strange not being a part of some chapter of your life. I hope you can forgive me for being an idiot – you’ve got a lot of practice with this, so I’m hoping it won’t be too hard._

_I’m not saying that I like this Tom kid, after all it is my job to look out for you, but since he’s gonna be coming to your debut according to Mom, I’ll do my best to be nice to him. Besides, I think you’ll black my eye if I’m not, and you know how I feel about my face._

_Owen’s been holing himself up in his room since you left, but I think he’s been writing novel long letters to your friend Radella. Never thought I’d see him like this, but if she likes to listen to his research talk, then good on her._

_Oh – Margaret and I have set our wedding date for October. You’ll be in the party of course, so don’t make any plans for the whole month. Mom is about to be a demon about it._

_I’m back in Boston now for work, so if you feel like sneaking across the seas to come visit, Mom will never know._

_Bear hugs,_

_Albion_

Florence could barely make out his signature through the tears. Leave it to Albion to reduce her to tears both in fury and in happiness – to say things which made her question their familial ties, and then to build back what he had torn.

She drops the letter onto the table before her so that her tears would not smudge the ink, her hands wiping at her cheeks to get rid of any sign of her emotion. She wants to know more about the letters Owen is writing Radella, if she has perhaps already received them, and how serious her brother truly felt about the raven haired girl. How frustrating to have introduced the two, and to not have Owen around where she could question his every move, to encourage the often mute man when he was uncertain.

She is lost in a train of thought when a figure drops onto the bench beside her, the medicinal scent alerting Florence that it could only be one person.

“You’ve been crying,” Tom’s roiling voice points out, his hand coming to rest under her chin and pulling her gaze to his. Florence takes a shuddering breath, whether at the handsome face before her or to regain her composure, she does not know. She knows she should ask him how he always manages to find her, but right now she is too thankful to find his body pressed beside hers to ask.

“I got all these letters,” Florence explains, somewhat lamely, offering him a weak smile that does nothing to erase the concern etched into the lines of his face. She likes him when they are alone, when he does not have to pretend to be anything for anyone, when Tom is solely hers.

“I see,” he says, smirking at her expense. “May I?”

He reaches for them before Florence can stop him, and she forces herself not to watch as midnight eyes scan each line, his face solid and impassable. Part of her is terrified for his response, the other part curious if the mentions of himself in the writings of her friends and family will push him to give her an answer about her debut. Her heart seems to swell with anxiety, acute pain like needles throughout her chest.

“Boyfriend,” Tom says plainly, forcing Florence’s gaze back to his. The word is foreign upon his tongue, as if he has never considered the possibility until this very moment. His eyes are wide, already pale skin whitening further, and Florence cannot help but laugh at the alarm she sees written there.

“Yes, Albion asked if we were dating while I was home.”

“What did you say?” And there is undeniable curiosity in his voice.

“I told him we weren’t.”

Tom smirks at these words, manifesting his infuriating ability to say everything and also nothing with a look.

“Well, there was never truly any question about how he felt about me.”

“Albion is defensive.”

“He,” Tom said clearly, pulling his eyes away from the parchment to meet Florence’s. “Is weak. And he should have no authority to speak over you.”

“All of the men in my life try to speak for me, Albion is but one of them.”

“And you believe I try to speak for you?”

Florence considers. He has given her his symbol, an act with the possessiveness of tagging a dog, and yet it was also a sign of trust. That he believed her worthy of defending those enchantments in the ring which could harm him, that he found her capable. And while he often talked down to her during their lessons, it was with the intent of making her better, of providing her with power to make her strong and independent and reliable on no other.

“Sometimes,” she settles on, smiling at him. “But it’s not like I try to stop you. _I’ve_ given _you_ permission to call me yours.”

His smirk broadens into a full smile, and everything inside of her is reduced to ash.

“You like being mine?”

“Obviously,” she whispers, having to look away once more because her blush is so profuse that she can feel her skin flaming. Beside her Tom chuckles, a rumbling sound which does nothing to cool her, and he discards Albion’s letter for another. Clifford’s too is tossed aside a moment later, and then he is reading Tallulah’s, a short exhale of air betraying his annoyance.

“So,” he began, and Florence can feel his magic rippling in the air around them. “Forsythe Blount is to be in attendance at your debut.”

“Yeah, well, Tallulah is getting presented. He’s one of her escorts.”

This was true, but it didn’t seem worth mentioning that Florence was well aware that the entire town of Spectre believed they would get married, including Forsythe and both of their parents.

“I do not like the idea of competing for you,” Tom murmurs, every word like a stone dropping into her stomach. Florence froze, her entire body rigid. It is the first time he has directly mentioned her debut since their first argument, and she is sure that if he doesn’t continue she will finally submit to the madness that has been welling within her over the past weeks.

“It really isn’t much of a competition,” Florence admits after a moment. “I have shared more with you in five months than I have with Forsythe in my seventeen years of knowing him.”

“It is a shame then, that you are not the judge of this contest.”

“You know I do get some say, Tom,” Florence informs him, her voice quiet in an attempt to speak clearly, to combat the pulse which hammers in her chest. “At the very least, I will be able to tell my family my preference.”

Tom’s hand finds Florence’s thigh, his fingers skating up and down the skin of her leg under her skirt, his eyes narrowing as he waits for her to continue speaking.

“And?”

“ _And_ ,” she says, taking in a deep breath, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I know things are subject to change – in five or six years when it comes time to ask for my hand, you may not even want me anymore, and I already know you find marriage a detestable tradition.” Tom’s hand closes around her thigh, squeezing so tightly it could leave bruises of his fingerprints, as if to say her words were ridiculous. “ _But_ , should you still want me when the time comes, of course my choice would be you, Tom.”

His eyes scan her face, searching for the lie that he thinks she is hiding, but Florence knows she has always been an open book. His jaw, like cut glass, tenses until she thinks it might snap.

“And should you not want me anymore?” His voice is steel and iron and thunder all in one, and she shivers as his hand once more tightens around her leg.

“You would have to mess up pretty bad for that to happen. I can’t imagine ever _not_ wanting you.”

When he smiles, he is the sun, and Florence is the tree and the flower and the leaf living for that small moment of infinity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllloooo dearest readers! So this is unrelated to this chapter, but I think we are about halfway, probably even a little over halfway through at this point, and now seemed like a good time to bring this up. I wanted to say that I have had the general plot of this story mapped out since I began, and at some point for those of you who are as in love with Tom and Florence as I am, things may begin to occur that potentially (really I'm trying not to spoil things, you may not be upset at all, just covering my bases here) you find displeasing. All I am asking is that you stick with me and have faith in the story, and in me as your author that I have a satisfying conclusion planned out. That of course doesn't mean you can't be unhappy or give me constructive feedback, I just wanted to explain I do have a plan and I do believe it leads to a satisfying ending. 
> 
> Ok that is all - take that however you like, and as always thank you for all the kudos, bookmarks, hits, and comments!! You are WONDERFUL I live for your feedback and you are all so generous with your time and praises!! THANK YOU!


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, it is probably ridiculously obvious, but this story has just taken over my life. I love writing it, and I literally spend time almost every night trying to churn out chapters and rereading it and thinking about plot and characterization and metaphors and other stupid author writer stuff!! I've written other things in the past and its felt like such a chore, but for whatever reason this story just seems to flow very naturally. 
> 
> I do think a huge part of my enjoyment has been the continuous support from all of you readers. I mean, it's a bit mind boggling really how wonderful you are, and I'm so repetitive in my thanks, but there is no better way to phrase it then a simple: thank you, I appreciate you, you give me the energy and passion to keep writing!!!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter from Tom's POV - as always, it was a joy to jump into his crazy little mind!!! Happy reading Xx

**Chapter 31**

Helen, thy beauty is to me 

Like those Nicéan barks of yore, 

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, 

The weary, way-worn wanderer bore 

To his own native shore. 

On desperate seas long wont to roam, 

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home 

To the glory that was Greece, 

And the grandeur that was Rome. 

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche 

How statue-like I see thee stand, 

The agate lamp within thy hand! 

Ah, Psyche, from the regions which 

Are Holy-Land! 

― Edgar Allen Poe

She’d left him a _fucking_ homework assignment. He’d found the scroll of parchment on the desk in his chambers when he returned from escorting Florence to Dippet’s office to catch her Floo time, unsure how she had managed to sneak into his room or hide it from him, but pleased nonetheless by her surprise. His jaw had become slack as he read, not because what she demanded was difficult, but at her nerve in requesting anything of him. Tom could not remember the last time it had happened. Somewhere in the back of his thoughts, he knew this was Florence’s idea of a joke, a reminder of their first lesson when she’d been affronted by his assigning her additional work.

Remembering had made him smile, and then he’d finished the letter.

_…Anyways, keep me in your prayers while I’m under my mother’s roof. She’s going to turn into a harpy I’m sure the moment the tailor shows up. She’s already told me what cut and fabric she wants for my dress, so I don’t even know why I need to be there. It’s not like I’m making any of the decisions._

_It sounds stupid to write this down, especially since I’ll only be gone for two full days, but I’m going to miss you terribly. I plan on visiting Illini while I’m home, so I’ll bring back any words she might have for you._

_I’ll be back on Saturday night. Also, I dreamt about you._

_Yours,_

_Florence_

Tom has read the letter what feels like one hundred times, his eyes raking over and fixating upon different words and phrases with each iteration. _I’m going to miss you. I dreamt about you. Yours._ It made him feel warm and stuffy and a surge of both anger and desire that he had no way to expel because Florence wasn’t here for him to touch.

The past two months had been two of the most successful that he could remember during his tenure at Hogwarts. He’d begun to study for his N.E.W.T.’s only to find that he was already wildly ahead in the review material, lessening the pressure for him to outstrip his classmates. He would outperform them, there was no question.

Then there had been several innocuous but nevertheless successful pranks on some of the Mudbloods that still populated Hogwarts’ halls. Exploding inkwells and rash powder in their sheets and nausea inducing serum in their morning pumpkin juice which reduced them to blubbering, sweating messes only a few minutes later. Tom had watched with practiced indifference as the Mudblood Florence insisted upon toting around – Radella Gilford – vomited her morning pastry all over her potions homework only a few weeks ago. Florence herself had taken the girl to the hospital wing, and she’d kissed him before leaving, none the wiser of his involvement.

And then there was Florence at the center of it, always at the center however he tried to approach the enigma that was that girl. He could see the madness that was eating her mind, the fear etched into every line of her face that he would, in the end, reject her, and the unwavering commitment to _him_ that grew as a result. The insecurity he’d planted within her on the day he’d given her his ring had bloomed into a fully realized agony, a thorn in her mind that only _he_ could resolve. It was in every look, every touch they shared – she was _his_ , irrevocably.

He had not known how easy it would be to twist her, to warp her until only thoughts of himself remained. The bruises under her eyes were a constant punishment for her dishonesty, the way her hands reflexively reached for him as Tom stood to go a symbol of her fear. She’d been _wrong_ not to tell him, and Florence knew that now. Without him lifting a finger she was paying retribution enforced by no other than herself.

And yet there was one voice, small and reedy in its uncertainty that pointed out the line of hardness in her gaze that had never lived there before, that she laughed less, her smiles perhaps a fraction of an inch smaller. Some foreign part of him longed for the way her head would fall back, dusty rose lips parting as raucous laughter filled whatever room she was in. He missed, against all of his better judgement, being able to sit and read for hours alongside her, silent and content in the companionship they shared. Now, she was unable to lie still, reaching for him always, reassuring herself that he had not abandoned her.

Yes, his plan had worked exceedingly well, but at what cost?

She had been fiercely independent, brash, and outspoken, and now she was curbed, a shell of the woman who had made him question everything. He _had_ her, and he had lost her in the process. Unbidden, the words of the Piasa returned to him.

_Nobody is anybody’s, anybody is nobody’s. Does the sun belong to us because we feel it? The moon because we see by it?_

The turmoil within Tom made him feel reckless, and for the second time in two months he considered visiting the Chamber so that he could release the torrent of magic that flowed through him. Another part of him wanted to storm to Dippet’s office and attempt the trans-Atlantic Floo into the Allman Estate, to burst from their family fireplace onto the ungodly expensive oriental rug and pull Florence flush against him. To tell her that he would be at her debut, to return to the third floor library where she had fallen asleep in his arms for the first time and assure her that they would have all of eternity together, that he would carve her name into monoliths, that he would redefine the wizarding world for her.

It is a sign of the spell she has him under that he hopes she would laugh at him as he offered her these promises.

Shaking slightly with the overwhelming emotion inside him, Tom gets to his feet, his eyes at once seeking the Dittany tree that is growing within the window alcove. It was larger now, nearly a month and a half since he had summoned it from the soil on that unforgettable night where for the first time in his life he’d accessed magic that was not his. The round leaves had begun to intermix sage with the silver – a sign of adolescence as Florence had put it, offering the tree itself one of the rare smiles she shared these days.

During their Thursday night lessons, Florence would teach him how to nurture the sapling, strengthening the bark, pulling forth leaves, widening the roots with phrases she had written for him in Latin which hummed with magic itself. He had imbedded part of his magic within the tree, or so Florence had said, but he knew there to be some truth to it because each time after the first the plant had responded quicker, the magic had come easier, he’d felt less exhausted with each try.

But despite his magical success, he would never tell her that he lived most for those moments when their eyes would meet through the branches of the now flourishing sapling, for the uninhibited pride he saw there even though Florence could have raised the seed to a fully grown tree in mere minutes. They had always understood this part of one another – the hunger for new knowledge, to expand the power outside of what was already theirs.

The knock on the door comes exactly at seven as instructed. Tom seats himself at his desk, leaning back slightly into a more refined position before waving his hand and unlocking the door without a word.

Leonidas stands outside in the hall, his hooded eyes and mess of brown curls distinctive even at this distance.

“Enter,” Tom calls. Lestrange steps through the archway, closing the door behind him, and then offers a low bow towards Tom that slightly settles the racing in his mind, his ego flaring momentarily and blocking out thoughts of caramel waves and chestnut eyes.

“Riddle,” the boy says coolly. They do not call him by his preferred name anymore, not now when so much is at risk, when Tom is sure that somehow Dumbledore has found a way to use the very walls of Hogwarts to listen in on him.

“You have news for me?”

“It seems Nott was mistaken. The locket in question was not Slytherin’s,” Lestrange relayed, his gaze unflinching from Tom’s.

This news is disappointing, although not unexpected. He had grown more and more certain as time progressed that he would be forced to search for the locket on his own upon leaving Hogwarts. He knew better than to rely too fully upon the goodwill or ability of others.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, Mulciber would like permission to set off dung-bombs in the kitchens tomorrow.”

“Does he have a reason?”

It was a boring prank, useless and childish and would further them nowhere.

“I think he’s just restless, to be honest,” Lestrange said, running a hand through his curls. Tom had always appreciate Lestrange’s maturity, his ruthlessness that he hid inside.

“And what do you think, Lestrange?”

Tom liked to play this game with Leonidas, to test him, taunt him with the possibility of a second in command style position.

“I think Mulciber is an idiot,” Lestrange said easily, his head falling to the side slightly. Tom notices when the hooded gaze flickers to the tree over his shoulder and back to his face. “But I think it is easier to give in to him now than to have him go out on his own.”

“I will punish him if he acts outside my orders.”

“He may need reminding.” Lestrange shrugs and looks at the fire, an almost bored affect written across his heavy features. Tom watches the young man without comment, waiting until even Leonidas seems to strain under the quiet.

“Is there something else you’d like to ask, Lestrange?” Tom’s voice is a hiss now, nearly parseltongue, and his fingers ache for the feel of his wand. The boy seems to weigh his decisions for a moment and then returns his gaze to Tom.

“Are there plans regarding Allman we should be aware of?”

Tom feels a smirk smear his lips, lacing his fingers together and laying them flat across his stomach. He ruminates on his words, allowing the whispers of the fire to fill the air, until at last he is ready to speak.

“Florence, as of right now, does not concern you. Do you have trepidations, Lestrange?”

“No,” he says, a lilt of unease slipping into his words. “She’s just been… _present_ recently, and many people were curious of your intentions.”

“My intentions regarding Florence are my own,” Tom replies so softly the words are barely audible. “Possession of her has become… _important_ to me. I do not expect to be questioned upon this.”

“Of course, My Lord,” Lestrange hurries to reply, the title falling from his lips in his rush.

“But you are still curious.”

“Only in how you should like me to respond to those who question you.”

Lestrange, Tom considers, really is quick on his feet. He smirks.

“You may tell them whatever it is you feel they would most like to hear. I will be travelling back to America for Florence’s debut in May, you can make your deductions from there.”

“Her debut? You intend…” Lestrange’s voice trails off, his hooded gaze widening in surprise.

“I am not above human pursuits when they benefit me, Lestrange.”

“Of course not. Allman is quite powerful, we were all impressed by her display at Samhain. It is only natural.”

Tom felt his smirk deepen at this comment. _Yes_ he muses, _it is natural that Florence and I should be together. Two beacons of magic, separate but strong_. He does not acknowledge that it has only been one day without her and yet there is a pain similar to splitting his soul tearing through him – that he spends hours writing about every interaction with Florence in his diary, that he saves her letters and even _dreams_ of her. Tom gives in to the urge and reaches for his wand, twirling it between his fingers.

“Tell Mulciber he may continue with his plan for the kitchens as a sign of my goodwill. Should he get caught, however, I will personally punish him.”

Lestrange gets to his feet with a small nod, and then he has disappeared, leaving Tom once more with his thoughts. Quickly they transition to linger where they always are, across the ocean to Florence. Having visited her home, it is easy for him to calculate the time, to imagine that she is just not settling into a late lunch on the back porch, all six of the family house elves dancing at her feet. He knows exactly how the indirect sunlight will illuminate the nearly translucent smattering of freckles across her cheeks, how her laugher will sound echoing off of wooden floorboards down into the fields. The image makes something inside of him burn, and he frowns, getting to his feet once more, extinguishing the fire with a wave of his hand.

That night he dreams of flying, of melting into smoke, of unfurling wings with great black feathers that slice the air and meld with the currents. Tom can feel himself drifting amongst the clouds, the land dissolving into water, moving with purpose towards something he does not know. And as he rustles beneath the sheets of his four poster, the skies in his mind fade from black to midnight to royal to the gentlest, palest blue. A sunrise in its infancy, and Tom soars to meet it.

.

.

.

He wakes and dresses in silence, his mind misfocused, as if in a fog. He’d had strange dreams, but of what he cannot recall, and the resulting feeling of uncertainty fills him with undirected rage. Breakfast is a silent affair – the first meal beyond those he’s skipped that Tom has not shared with Florence since before the Holiday. If his fellow Slytherins notice his foul humor, they wisely do not comment upon it.

Ancient Runes, one of Tom’s more uninteresting lessons, is made infinitely worse by the lack of a boisterous, American presence beside him. Tom will not, _cannot_ admit – even to himself – that he misses her, but there is no denying how his mind recalls the way her hand wraps around a quill, words and symbols in a variety of languages reeling from her thoughts with no apparent effort. He thinks of the careful Latin phrases she has developed for him, each folded and stowed neatly in his desk where he will never have to admit to keeping them, their words transcribed into his diary where the ink sinks into the pages, forever imbedded into his soul. _Yours_ he thinks, remembering Florence’s letter, and Tom cannot stop his mind from wondering how it felt for her to write that word, if it thrilled her as much as it did him.

It is near the end of class that his dream returns to him, the recollection of flight entering his brain. Tom almost finds relief in the memory, that there is something to break the barrage of thoughts that all pertain to Florence. Flying itself is not something that has ever held interest to Tom, quidditch and broomsticks a foolish pastime, magical flying creatures difficult and cumbersome. He had no need for flight when he was capable of apparating anywhere.

Yet, in his dreams, he had not been flying. He’d been one with the air, and the realization seems to stick, to sink into his mind until he cannot escape it. _Perhaps…_ he wonders, his eyes drifting out the window and away from his runic translation. _Perhaps…yes…with native magic…_

He will not be capable himself, not now while he is still mastering the basics of those enchantments Florence seems to have sung into her skin. But _she_ will be able too. A smile, a true smile spreads across his face at the thought of Florence mastering the air, her hair wild with lightning and wind, heat coiling through breeze around her, elemental and beautiful and _his_. Tom turns, lost in thought, expecting to see that look Florence holds when he offers her a grin as if he is all things right in her world, but there is no umber gaze to meet his midnight, and some of his excitement fades.

Suddenly class cannot end soon enough, and at their dismissal, Tom hurries to the door and down the corridors, brushing past students with ease. A fourth year Ravenclaw girl who Tom had noticed seems to appear outside of his classes waves at him, but he does not make any sign of recognition. By the time he has passed her, the girl’s face is beet red. Tom made his mind up without thinking, his feet leading him with certainty towards the familiar double doors of the library, the familiar scent of parchment and leather a welcome embrace for his racing thoughts. It takes only a moment to decide where he should begin his search.

 _Magics of the Native Peoples of America_.

He pulls no less than ten books from the shelves, allowing the hovering stack of tomes to trail after him as he takes his usual seat in the far back corner where the entire school knows better than to disturb him. Reaching for the first book, he flips to the table of contents, simultaneously summoning a blank piece of parchment, quill, and ink from his bag. With a rogue smile that no one will see, he sets to work.

He has magic to create.

.

.

.

It is well past midnight when Tom leaves the library having forgone both lunch and dinner. The side of his palm has been stained black with ink, his eyes water after hours of continuous reading, but even his exhaustion cannot smother the glow of pride that emanates from every inch of his being. _The spell is perfect_.

Two candles burned to the quick as he wrote and researched, recalling to the best of his ability every lesson Florence has given him on land magic. On language, on understanding, on drawing upon the magic around you to accomplish your goals. The paragraph is nearly two full rolls of parchment long, written, and then painstakingly translated into Latin. He has read it so many times the words are imprinted upon his brain, his vision flickering somewhat as he rounds another corner on the way to his chambers.

Tomorrow he will return to the library, review his work again. The spell must be immaculate before he presents it to Florence – he wants to see her cheeks flush with the pale pink of excitement, her mouth form into an idyllic “ _o_ ” as her eyes traverse each line because she will read and know what he has given her. Magic, magic, _magic._

But despite his exhaustion, it takes hours to fall asleep, his mind whirling with anticipation. For Florence to return to Hogwarts, to _him._ To share with her that magic that makes her powerful and enchanting and everything he has never known, but ever wanted.

He dreams of flying, and this time Florence flies beside him.

.

.

.

Tom stops in the Great Hall just long enough to fix himself a cup of tea, nod to his followers, and hastily consume a few bites of toast before returning to the library. The frantic sense of anticipation returned to him within seconds of waking, at once alert and ready to shape new forms of magic to his will.

His books are in the stacks where he left, them, the library pleasantly empty on this Saturday morning as students brave the cold for snowball fights, or if they are of age, the scheduled trip to Hogsmeade. Tom ignored the invitations he’d received during his brief foray to breakfast, frankly disgusted by their ability to be swayed by such menial desires.

And besides – Florence would not be there to peruse shelves beside, for him to watch as her face lit up over small trinkets, to force him to drink a butterbeer with her at the Three Broomsticks. No, he certainly didn’t want to go to Hogsmeade.

His handwriting from the night before is frantic as he pulls out the two rolls of parchment to review his work. With a frown, Tom draws closer two fresh scrolls and sets to work transcribing into the neat, formal rows that Florence will expect of him. He works in silence, every so often pausing to fret over a word, a comma, whether to start a new line. It is magic as he has never understood it, the thought that he is crafting enchantment itself so intoxicating that Tom does not realize the day is sliding by outside of the castle. Wind whistles through the turrets, the candle beside him occasionally flickering as the wax spits and drips, but his work is ceaseless, the spell imperfect until every letter has been reasoned.

It is nearing midday when Tom’s hunger and mingled exhaustion reach the level to warrant a break. With a tap of his wand on the books, which return to their individual locations, Tom tucks the spell into his robe pocket, wipes the sleep from his eyes, and sets off for his chambers. Maybe he can convince the house elves to fix him a late lunch, at least a cup of tea and some biscuits to hold him over until dinner.

The corridors are empty, but his mind is racing. _What is wind and how do you tame it, and can air be solid, does it have strength?_ He’s asked himself these questions and a thousand others over the course of the past twenty four hours, and yet feels no closer to an answer. It is astounding to him that the songs and words Florence uses to wield her great grandmothers magic come naturally to her – Tom feels no closer to parsing the power of the air now than he did when he started, yet his hand closes around the paper in his pocket with undeniable pride. What he has done is miraculous, all the same.

Tom has a brief view of his bedroom, the fire popping merrily in the grate, the sky a murky grey with snowfall through the window, before something collides with him, the overwhelming scent of coffee and the clinical tang that can only be Dittany washing over him.

“Florence,” he hears himself whisper, his face immediately buried into her neck, breathing deeply, his mind detached from the physical reality that is the woman enveloped in his grasp. “I thought you weren’t back until tonight?”

“I finished early, and Alb was able to get me an earlier portkey, although I’m sure it was ungodly expensive.”

Her breath is warm against his neck, heating the triangle of skin where his open top button revels a sliver of his chest. Everything within Tom is tight, as if somehow something that was crooked over the past two days has been suddenly righted, realigning the reality within which he has been operating. His fingers dig into her back, face angling so he can press his lips to the top of her head. How frustrating that she could just _leave_ for two days, even though he had known it was coming, even though _he_ was the one who was driving her crazy with his own disguised threats to leave, and how relieving that she had returned.

“So you came to my room first?” Tom asks, and through his surprise he can feel himself smirk. Florence shifts within his grasp, turning her face up to grace him with her gaze, chestnut and warm and eyes crinkled in the corner as if he was one continuous Christmas gift. He likes when she looks at him like that, as if there is nothing else that matters.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she teases.

“Too late.”

Tom doesn’t know if he kisses her first or if Florence is the one attacking him, he is only certain that she is meant to be here in his arms, that their mouths move in tandem like a dance no one else could master. Two days apart, and yet it had been centuries, Florence’s kiss like a return from war. He can feel her smiling against his mouth, and with a grin of his own, he steers her over to one of the plush green chairs beside the fire, pulling her down into his lap.

“How was home?”

Florence’s entire face brightens at once, something he did not know was further possible because she is already smiling, but he feels a thickness in his throat at the expression, an involuntary spasm in his hands as they tighten their hold upon her. She looks more rested than he has seen her in months, the near permanent bruises under her eyes a faded memory, her smile wide and far reaching. Something inside of him that has been agonizing over the past two days is restored by the sight of her so well, rejuvenated from her time in America.

“It was so nice, I wish you could have come, but honestly you would have been bored out of your mind,” Florence rushes to tell him. Her fingers, ever adventurous, have found one of his palms, tracing the lines there as she did on that first night they touched – in the gardens at Samhain. “My mom was a terror of course, but I got to go for a walk with Owen this morning which was nice.”

“And Albion?”

“I traveled through Boston to and from so I saw him briefly, but he’s got a huge shipment of cauldrons he has to manufacture, so we didn’t have a lot of time to catch up which was a disappointment.”

“Hmm,” Tom hums, unable to hide his lack of interest in Florence’s time with her eldest brother.

She laughs, and then pulls his face to hers, a chaste kiss – a painfully human act he would have never considered before Florence, but which he gives to her, letting their lips brush for a moment. He wonders if she is like him, sometimes rendered incapable of understanding what is occurring between them, allowing her actions to manifest those things which are impossible to say. Her lips are soft and warm and despite not wanting admit he’d missed her, he can at least admit to himself he’d missed _this_ – the intimacy of a moment he could not share with any other.

When she kisses him again immediately after, he stops questioning why he lets her.

“I saw your Dittany tree while I was waiting for you,” Florence says when she has released him, her eyes momentarily flickering to the small potted plant in the window sill. “It’s strong. Your magic is deep within it.”

“I have been practicing, although I have a suggestion for Thursdays lesson which does not involve trees.”

“Feel like you’ve progressed that far already?”

She is not doubting him, Tom notes, the curl of curiosity painting each of her words.

“It is not for me, but for you,” he explains, his hand closing around hers so that he can run his thumb over the ring she still wears. Florence blushes.

“Owen asked about the ring.”

“And what did you tell him?” Tom wishes he could use magic against her mind, to _see_ the events of this weekend through her own eyes, but he is too impatient to ask.

“Only that it was yours, and that you asked me to keep it safe for you.”

“And your mother? How was she?”

“You know Eudora,” Florence says, rolling her eyes slightly. “An absolute hag, but the seamstress she hired was lovely.”

“Is everything settled then?” Tom asks, and he has a strange desire to ask if she took a picture in her gown, if she will show him. Thankfully, he finds his restraint.

“Yeah, the dress is perfect,” Florence says, and she bites her lip, looking away from him for the first time since she threw herself into his arms. “They’re finishing up alterations and it’ll get shipped to the estate from New York by the end of March.”

Tom nods, but says nothing, painfully aware that Florence is not looking at him. He wants her too, he hates when he is not the center of her thoughts, and he knows without asking that she is remembering that he has not given her an answer.

“My mom,” she begins again, her words small and slow, a pregnant pause arising as she clearly chews upon her thoughts. “My mom gave me this to give you, of course, assuming you want it.”

Tom watches as Florence pulls up the hem of her navy sweater and tugs a small silk bag and thick, cream colored envelope from her pocket. She shifts in his lap, holding onto the package without offering it to him.

“It’s your invitation, and your sash. Of course I still want you to come, but I know you detest the idea of a debut and if…” Tom watches as she closes her eyes, as if steeling herself to share her deepest, darkest secret. “If you still don’t want to participate, I’ll send it back to my family and tell her she won’t need to plan travel for you or anything.” Florence’s hands are shaking slightly, her face tight as her brow scrunches, as if preparing herself for his rejection.

Tom’s hand moves from her waist down her arm to the letter shaking within her grasp. As if from a dream, he remembers his anger, watching as her mind crumbled over the passing month, and his fingers close around the parchment, fingers brushing against hers without hesitation. He’d gotten what he wanted – he’d always had it really – her devotion, and now all he wanted was her, to secure her place alongside him in life.

“Of course I will be there Florence,” he murmurs, pulling the package from her hold. “It has always been my intention to be present for your debut.”

For one moment Florence is still in his arms, her eyes shooting wider than the moon, and then for the second time that afternoon Tom is subject to an attack from her, the letter and bag containing his sash knocked to the floor as she buries her fingers into his hair, nails raking his scalp, lips hard and insistent against his own.

“ _Tom_ ,” she whispers, and then they speak no more, lost to sensation, her tongue and lips and mouth moving against his. His hands find her waist, his tongue claiming her again and again as if they have not kissed a thousand times.

And then Florence is moving, crawling out of his lap and onto the floor, resting upon her knees between his legs. Her eyes, umber and bright and looking up at him, threatening to do what he has only imagined when he is alone, when he cannot be disturbed. He does not stop her as her hands travel up his thighs, nails leaving burning lines through the fabric of his trousers, at last to his belt.

She moves with the decisiveness he has come to expect from her, tugging at his buckle, pulling his hips forward to the edge of the chair so that he is slumped and slack jawed, watching her open his robes and pull at the elastic of his pants.

“Tom,” she says so quietly he almost misses it, his mind hovering in a hazy cloud of anticipation that is so painful he must grip the sides of the chair until his knuckles are white. Her voice is low, a promise, and again her eyes flicker to his. “I need you to lift your hips.”

“ _Florence_ ,” he says in response, still frozen, unable to tear his eyes away from the coy smile that spreads across dusty rose lips he would know in any situation – any situation but _this_. He does not know why he says her name, but he feels his head roll back against the chair behind him as her nails trace the skin of his abdomen, curling around the hem of his pants, the elastic of his briefs. Desire is coiling within him now, each brush of her skin like white hold jolts of pain because _gods_ he wants her here and now and upon and against every surface.

“ _Please_ , Tom.”

She is begging, and of course he gives in. He’d give her anything. He’ll give her the world.

Lifting his hips, Florence makes quick work of his clothes, the air cold and sharp against his skin which is too warm, too tense. There is only hint of a pause, and then her hands are upon him, soft and tentative and he closes his eyes because if he looks at her the moment will be over too soon and he wants to savor this for the rest of eternity.

Seconds later, he feels her mouth, warm and wet and better than any time he has imagined this. All coherent thought fails him, and he floats on bliss.

“ _Florence._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...she did say she would have him moan her name...
> 
> As always, I have NO idea how to write smut, even though that was pretty PG13. Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter - lmk your thoughts:) Stay safe everyone!


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Runs in screaming*
> 
> a new chapter for you, my dear readers!!!!

**Chapter 32**

“You can't keep the birds of sadness from flying over your head, but you can keep them from nesting in your hair.”   
― Sharon Creech, Walk Two Moons

It is only a few hours later that Florence and Tom find themselves curled around one another atop Tom’s emerald quilted bed, the blue leather copy of the _Iliad_ cracked open between them. They had finished an easy dinner of creamy beef stew and accompanying cups of tea summoned by a Hogwarts house elf, Tom listening patiently as Florence described every detail of her short foray home to America.

“Tallulah said they’ve hired several wizarding photographers,” Florence informed him between heaping spoonful’s of soup. Tom had enchanted one of the chairs into a full loveseat so that Florence can sit facing him, her knees pressed to his side, toes tucked under his thighs only for the sake of closeness. One long, delicate arm stretches across the back of the seat, fingers finding Florence’s hair where he absent mindedly intertwines with her curls, eyes never leaving Florence’s face. “And of course, they booked the best band – they’re flying in from Los Angeles to play.”

“Naturally,” Tom says, but he is smiling slightly, an admission that he knows her and her love of music.

“And Tallulah says our dresses are different cuts which is good because we’re so near each other in the alphabet. I can’t even begin to imagine how much people would tease us if the two best friends were presented back to back in near identical dresses.”

“Ghastly, I’m sure,” Tom agrees, his fingers slipping through her hair to brush the side of her neck.

“Don’t be rude,” Florence snaps, but she has to take another spoonful of stew into her mouth to hide her smile.

“Oh!” She remembers, looking away from him to search out the abandoned and still unopened invitation. Pulling out her wand, she summons the piece of paper to her, and sets down her bowl so that she can tuck herself into Tom’s side. Without hesitation his arm tightens around her shoulders, drawing Florence in until her head rests on his shoulder.

“I think you’ll have to get a full tuxedo – tails, the whole nine yards,” Florence informs him, tearing at the letter. She has to force away the memory of Tom in a tuxedo at the Symphony, how it had splintered her thoughts, derailed all sensible desires. “The invitation will say though.”

“It is against wizarding law to open another’s mail, Florence,” Tom chides, taking the letter from her gently, his voice low and rumbling. She watches, slightly transfixed, as narrow, pale fingers pull the piece of cardstock from the envelope, flipping it over to reveal an embossed shield with a rose upon it. The writing is in a fine, navy script that reads:

_At the bequest of Florence Livingston Allman, Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Clifford Alexander Allman – outstanding members of Spectre Wizarding Society_

_The Arts Guild of Spectre invites one:_

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_

_To the Spectre Fine Arts Ball on the First of May 1945._

_Doors open at 8 PM, Presentation of inductees shall begin at 9 PM._

_Guests will be expected in white tie._

_To the Magic of Beauty, the Beauty of Youth._

“And how did you discover my middle name?” Tom asks her when his midnight eyes have finished scanning the page. Florence flushes, because of course Tom wouldn’t ask her a normal question like “who is the arts guild” or “what does white tie entail.”

“I had my dad check the student registry at the Ministry.”

“It is not a detail I tend to share with people,” he had said, his voice still, face blank with those masks he attempted to use to keep his thoughts at bay.

“Is it a family name?” Florence asks, her words quieter. She lets her fingers trace the slightly raised ink of Tom’s name before moving to her own. She liked seeing them there, written in close proximity to one another, as if a promise of announcements to come.

“It was my grandfather’s. I did not meet him.”

There is now a chill in his voice which even Tom cannot hide. Florence knows without question that Marvolo – whoever he was – is yet another family member who was a disappointment to Tom, perhaps as inconsequential as his parents had been in the Head Boy’s opinion.

“I think it’s a beautiful name,” Florence admits after a deep breath, and when she turns to look at him, there is only the pales pink tinge upon the sharpness of his cheekbones. He kisses her lightly, and then pulls her to the bed, silently handing her his copy of the _Iliad_ and flipping open to the book where they had left off, ending the conversation.

When the clock chimes midnight Florence awakes with a jerk, her head resting upon Tom’s stomach, their legs a knot on top of the covers. The sky outside is black, the fireplace nothing but embers, and beneath her Tom stirs slightly, awoken by her sudden movements.

“You must return to your common room,” he whispers, a stray finger tracing down her spine, shivers spiraling down her skin. His voice is thick with sleep, and she turns to see that his eyes are barely open, his face relaxed in the grasp of exhaustion in a way it never was during the day.

“Of course, I’d hate for my perfect Head Boy to get in trouble over me.”

She brushes a stray curl from his forehead, unable to stop herself from raking her fingers through his hair. His eyes flicker closed at her touch, a deep exhale of breath as he sinks into the mattress further, sleep once more calling to him. Sitting up, Florence reaches across him and places his book where it had rested on Tom’s bedside table, sticking his invitation between the pages as a bookmark. She will never tire of seeing his face soften in sleep, of the youth that he hides so well when he is awake.

“ _Yours_ ,” he murmurs, his eyes still closed, but his hands rest upon her waist as she leans back to sit beside him. Tom’s voice is barely a whisper, and she smiles, wondering if he is remembering the letter that she spent hours fretting over.

“Goodnight, Tom.”

She crawls from the bed and collects her shoes, turning off the lamp beside him and tossing the throw blanket at the end of his bed over his still fully clothed figure. Taking one final glance around the space, she moves towards the door, silently cracking it open to see if any patrolling teachers lay outside. The sliver of light from the corridor seems to rouse Tom once more, and she hears the springs of the mattress groan.

“Florence?” He calls, and his voice is like wind through the leaves. She will never tire of hearing it.

“Yes, Tom?”

“I dreamt about you when you were gone. We were flying.”

She doesn’t say anything in response, there are no words for this. And so with one final smile to the darkness that is his back corner where is bed lays, Florence slips through the door and out into the corridors of Hogwarts.

.

.

.

Her mind returns to her slowly, not all at once, not the same as before, but the cloud of anxiety she had seemed to live in no longer chokes her every breath. Tom is no longer overbearing, Florence capable of spending a few hours away from him, as if the admission that Tom would be attending her debut had released both of them from a terrible burden. Her fear does not disappear completely – she remembers it, the dread of Tom choosing to abandon her itself twisting into a fear of the person she had been, the weakness that had resulted from her desperation for him.

She can see now the fog that consumed her for two months, and as March presses onward, Florence lives in a state of bliss shadowed by the slightest sliver of self-loathing – she cares for Tom, but he could never again have that much power over her. She had forgotten herself, but perhaps, she thinks, her mind needed to travel such dark paths. This thing that had grown between herself and Tom, nearly from the very beginning, had always been too large and too strong, and maybe she needed to fully grapple with the power of it in order to control it.

Florence ignores the voice in her head that whispers he treated her unkindly, that he weaponized her own invitation against her. It is the same voice that reminds Florence of their long ago argument over the worth of muggle-borns, of the value of his family. She rationalizes to herself that she had been in the wrong first for not telling Tom of her debut, that his response was only out of self-defense, that he who hated all things tradition and situations that rendered him powerless, had only reacted in a manor to give himself equal footing to her.

And when the nasty voice in the corner of her mind asks what is to prevent Tom from mistreating and manipulating her again, Florence’s memory hushes these words with memories of dancing on Samhain, of his eyes when he calls her beautiful, of the way Tom’s fingers wrap around his wand when he summons fire. She recalls scribbled notes and gentle kisses and his gaze upon her at the Symphony. _He will try to give you the world_ Illini’s words echo in her head, and she allows herself to believe it because she wants a world with him in it.

“What are you going to do after you graduate?” Florence asks one day as they stroll through the halls, moving aimlessly around the castle. Tom stares out ahead of them, his face slipping into the familiar mask which means his thoughts are far beyond the castle walls, far beyond even Florence.

“I have thought, sometimes,” he says after some time, “that perhaps I would like to teach.”

“Well, as your first student, I can attest first hand to your abilities.”

Tom smiles at her, and then continues.

“But there is so much magic I still wish to master, so much I dream of accomplishing. I cannot simultaneously teach and change the world, and changing the world must come first.” It is the first time they have ever spoken of what they intend after Hogwarts, with the exception of Florence’s debut and the unspoken but nevertheless understood insinuation of possible marriage, and it comes as no surprise to her that Tom plans on somehow restructuring society. She had always assumed this – especially after Slughorn had loudly boasted that Tom would go on to be Minister.

“I think,” Florence says, tightening her arm that is looped through his. “If anyone could manage to balance a career and concurrently becoming the most talented sorcerer alive, it would be you.” She is not trying to be overly complimentary, just speaking honestly. She can see in their classes how easily magic comes to him – Tom has already progressed through her beginning lessons of native magic much faster than she had. It is no small jump to think that he could use Hogwarts and the library here as a base for amassing vast quantities of magical knowledge.

“And you? What will you do after you leave Hogwarts?” Tom asks. He takes her hand at this question, his thumb brushing over the ring that he placed there in an obtusely possessive manner.

Florence considers, her eyes straying out the windows to the grounds below. No one has ever asked this question before – it has been assumed since her birth that she would live at home until the time that she was married, and then she would live with her husband and mother children. She had never thought past her education, considered a career. To be asked it now, Florence feels the weight of the words, the unfolding of possibility before her.

“I don’t know,” she admits, turning to look at him. “I have never considered, but I think I would hate to be parted from my land. I think, in a perfect world, I would continue to help my dad and eventually Albion care for the Dittany fields.”

Tom nods his head as if giving her dreams his seal of approval. Neither of them mention that if Tom was to be a teacher at Hogwarts and Florence to be a farmer – both of them accomplishing their goals – they would live on other sides of the Atlantic. It did not seem like something worth discussing.

.

.

.

“Florence, oh my _gosh_ you’re never going to believe it,” Radella cries, throwing open the door to the seventh year Ravenclaw girls dormitory and storming inside. Her black hair flows behind her, pixie-like face flushed and gleaming, and both Florence and Lizzie fall silent at the typically reticent girl’s outburst.

“Radella! Well hello,” Florence calls, patting the bed beside her as an invitation for the sixth year girl to seat herself. “What is it that’s got you all hot and bothered?”

“Owen wrote to me,” Radella chimes, and Florence’s stomach drops at the glassy-eyed look that overtakes the emerald gaze of her companion, simultaneously amazed that Owen Allman can reduce a girl to any expression resembling love, and terrified that she might look like that when she was around Tom. Lizzie, who is seated across from them upon her own bed, smirks.

“And?” Lizzie asks coolly, returning the Hufflepuff girl to the present.

“He’s invited me to America for the Easter Holidays!”

“What!” Florence shrieks, snatching the roll of parchment from Radella’s grasp and checking for herself. Sure enough, after sifting through the neat, novel length letter, at the bottom is Owen’s desperate plea for Radella to make the journey for the Easter week.

“Radella, good lord, are you going to go?” Florence asks, somewhat dazed, handing the letter over into Lizzie’s outstretched arm.

“I can’t believe he invited me,” Radella whispers, her face still glazed, and Florence wonders if Radella even heard her question. “I mean to say, we’ve been writing to each other, but an entire week in America?”

“It’s not like you haven’t been before,” Lizzie points out, lifting her eyes from the scroll to glance at the two girls across from her. “It’d be just like the winter hols.”

“Do you think your mother knows, Florence?” Radella asks, green eyes turning to look at her. Florence feels herself smirk.

“There isn’t a thing that happens within a hundred miles of our estate that Eudora doesn’t know about. If you’re getting an invitation, then she knows and she’s approved – or at least agreed to it.”

“Well,” Lizzie adds, rolling up the parchment and handing it back to a still pale Radella. “If I may, it’s obvious you two are head over heels for each other. I think you should go.”

“But my parents have never even met him! And he’s nearly four years older than me, and…”

“ _And_ you spend hours at a time holed up in your common room writing books worth of letters to each other, and I’ve noticed that you’ve started subscribing to _U.S. Transfiguration Weekly_ ,” Florence points out, and now she is smiling. It is strange, to watch Owen fall in love from afar, to one of her best friends no less, but Radella is gentle and kind and would worship him for his intelligence and be patient with him when his moods swing. The hurdles of age and distance did not seem so unbearable when Owen was set to inherit a trans-Atlantic shipping empire, and because he was a boy, there were no parents examining marriage prospects in the same manner as Florence. Staring at the fairy like girl beside her, Florence felt a stab of jealousy so strong she forced herself to look away. How unbearable that she could not have the same freedom of choice, and how ridiculous that Tom would not settle for anything less than altering the very fabric of the magical universe. A future where she and Tom found peace alongside each other often felt very far off.

“But you’ll be there won’t you?” Radella asks, returning Florence to the conversation.

“No, actually I won’t,” Florence admits. “Philip has invited Lizzie, Fleamont and I to his home on the Isle of Wight.”

Radella’s face, if possible, pales further.

“Don’t look so stricken,” Lizzie says, her eyes cool but her face twisted into a hint of a grin. “You’ll get Owen to yourself for an entire week without Florence peeping through keyholes, and you’ve been to her home before. You know what to expect this time.”

Florence nods her agreement, chewing over the words she wants to say. Finally, incapable of withholding any thoughts, she speaks.

“Look, Radella,” Florence begins, leaning back onto her elbows so that Radella has to turn to observe her. “I’ve never seen Owen even glance at a girl besides his crush on Virginia Chandler when he was thirteen, and he couldn’t even _speak_ to her he was so nervous. If he’s invited you over to America for an entire week, then he’s positively crazy about you, and as much as I love you, if you break his heart I’ll cut your hair off in your sleep and leave doxy droppings in your morning tea.” Radella’s cheeks turn pink at the insinuation that Owen’s feelings could be so deep so quickly.

“You two both are mad about each other, and I can’t think of two nicer people, so I say get over your nerves and go find a fresh piece of parchment and write to him at once that of course you would love to visit him for Easter.”

“You really think so?” Radella asks, and her eyes are wide and her fingers knotted before her chest like a makeshift shield.

“Don’t make me tell you twice, just tell him you’re going. I know you want too,” Florence says, and her face breaks out into a full smile.

Without wasting another second, Radella hops to her feet and nearly flies from the room, shouting a _thank you_ over her shoulder before her bundle of raven colored curls disappears from view. Silence reigns for a moment, and then Lizzie cuts it.

“Would you really cut her hair off if she broke Owen’s heart?”

“No,” Florence chuckles, but her smile twitches and then fades. “Radella is too nice for me to actually lash out at her, but if she plays him along I’ll have something to say about it.”

“Well, you have something to say about everything,” Lizzie points out with a smirk. “It’s entirely American, and somewhat unattractive.”

“There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my family, Liz.”

.

.

.

Learning how to fly is a much slower process than any native magic Florence has attempted before. It is Thursday night when Tom presents her with his spell, his porcelain façade a blank mask, midnight eyes narrowed slightly with a tension he is carrying.

He doesn’t explain, instead watching intently as she pulls open the parchment and reads after first giving herself a moment to appreciate his fine handwriting and neat lines. The words are written in Latin – a language Florence is not fluent in, but none the less she is sufficiently able to follow along. His intent is clear by the time she reaches the end of the first page, the second only illuminating further his goal. _He wants to teach you to fly_ Florence’s mind screams with excitement, but for once her tongue has failed her, incapable of speaking.

She knew that he had an unquenchable imagination, but _flight_. Florence has never wanted it, but Tom would give her the power anyways.

Yet as she moves through the final words, a frown tugs at the corner of her mouth. She can see it in his translation, in his precise wording. Tom still misunderstands possession of magic. His writing speaks of _claiming_ magic around the speaker, of dominating the enchantments in every molecule for the caster’s particular use. It is what he had done with his tree, it is why the Dittany seedling in his room responds best to Tom – he had overpowered the seed’s innate magic, infusing it with his own abilities, and claimed the power of the plant for himself in the process. For someone as magically gifted and powerful as Tom, this was of course possible, perhaps even to the extent of flying, but trying to possess magic that was not innately yours was also unsteady, and at any moment you could lose control, and the magic would lash out and become violent.

“Well?” Tom asks after Florence finishes reading, at once impatient for her opinions. She bites her lip and glances up at him – a mistake because as usual she is overwhelmed by the look of him, his proximity to her, his mind which fascinates her at every turn.

“It is remarkable, although there are a few changes I would make.”

“Teach me, then.”

It is a command and a challenge, and Florence smiles because in this they are equals.

They fight over every word, every line, the position and the inflection and the deeper meanings. Florence more than once must set down her quill and walk around the Charms classroom in order to reign in her temper.

“You cannot _own_ the magic in the air, Tom,” Florence snaps for what feels like the hundredth time. “I do not know how else to say it. It does not belong to you, it answers to no one. We ask, and the magic may choose to answer or not.”

“I do not understand your inability to accept possession of magic. If I use it, then it is mine,” Tom counters, leaning back in his chair, his wand twirling so quickly between his fingers that it is nothing more than a blur. Energy radiates from his body, and Florence knows despite being across the room that he is angry.

“Because you cannot possess another’s magic! It’s why the imperious curse is illegal – it takes away choice, it is _wrong_.”

“Right and wrong,” Tom dismisses, getting to his feet and strolling to the window so that he can peer out across the grounds. “Such an insufficient argument. If I use the magic in something around me, then for that moment it is _mine_.”

“Right and wrong matters, Tom,” Florence says, annoyed but unsurprised she must say this too him. He has thrown dark curses at her without batting an eye because to him they represent only power and control, not some line of moral turpitude. “Don’t you remember my first ever Transfiguration assignment on magical sentience? Humans are nothing more than the conduit for the magic around them.”

“And what of our innate magic?”

Florence groans because he has a point.

“Fine, your innate magic is your own to do with as you please,” she snaps, and his smile is fierce and frenzied and she can see his excitement plain across his every feature. Her stomach clenches and coils because she wants to pull him close and melt into him when Tom is like this, but she must speak with him first.

“Your inner magic is tied to your sentience as a human, Tom, but the magic in the trees or in the wind or in the water is sentient too, and just as it’s _wrong_ to imperious another human and take away their control, it is _wrong_ likewise to try and control the magic of the spirits around us,” Florence tries to explain, and her hands curl into fists because she feels like a fool attempting to explain something so far reaching and nebulous. “Adsila always taught me that the Great Spirit divided the magic so that we may each live in equal harmony with the world around us.”

“Have you ever considered that Adsila did not teach you everything?” Tom asks, and he is moving through the desks towards her.

“No, she taught me to respect the magic around me, something I _wish_ I could teach to you.”

“I do respect the magic around me,” Tom says coldly, and his mouth turns downward into a frown. “I recognize that there is power around me that I could never hope to equal – it is this world of possibility which entrances me about the promises of your teachings, Florence.”

His voice is deep and rumbling and every word seems to float on a cloud of anticipation. She can see it in the curve of his jaw, the straight line of his nose, beneath the masks he wears – Tom Riddle the orphan who discovered the power of magic, which opened a world to him that he had been denied, and despite her frustration, she can no longer hold in her anger. It is hard to stay angry at him when he offers her the ability to fly, when he who can conjure magic without a word hangs upon her every teaching as if it was nectar and ambrosia. When he makes her feel seen and important and strong in a way she never has.

“I’m never going to change your mind about possession of magic, am I?” She asks, and he has reached her, his hand cupping her cheek as she glances up at him. Tom smirks, his thumb running across her cheekbone.

“No,” he agrees readily. “I do not see why you fight the idea. _You_ are mine, Florence, why shouldn’t your way of performing magic be mine also?”

“I am yours because I choose to be,” Florence whispers. There is a flash in his eyes, the ring of sky blue around his pupils shrinking as his eyes dilate. She wonders if he will ever understand the distinction.

“Let’s make a competition of it, then,” Tom murmurs, and his face is too close, her mind and thoughts slipping away as his face draws nearer. “You may attempt flight using land magic as you deem appropriate, and I will attempt it my way. We will see who is right in your black and white world in the end.”

Florence only has a moment to nod before he kisses her, and then the conversation is over.

.

.

.

“Sitting with us today, aye Allman?” Philip calls out, his gentle face cracking into an easy smile as Florence slides into the bench across from him. “King of the snakes get tired of you?”

“Charming, as always, Philip,” Florence laughs, but her eyes flicker over the sandy haired boy’s shoulder and across the Great Hall to the Slytherin table. She must bite her cheek to stop the smile that threatens when she finds a set of midnight eyes already trained upon her. There is, however, nothing she can do to hide her blush. Even across the hall, Florence can read the smirk on Tom’s face.

“Well, I’ve been talking with Lizzie about plans for the Easter holiday, I think we should get tickets to the Chudley Canon’s game that week. It’s not too far of a trip, and I think I can convince my dad to pay for the portkey.”

“I thought you cheered for Appleby?” Florence asks, sipping from her still steaming cup of coffee and quirking her brow at the boy across from her.

“I do, but I haven’t been to a live game in ages, so I’ll take what I can get.”

“The Canons are terrible,” Lizzie interjected, flipping the page to her copy of the _Daily Prophet_. “It won’t be much of a match.”

“Do you have any better ideas then, Greengrass?”

“No, as host, I thought I’d leave it up to you,” she said, summer gaze focusing momentarily upon Philip for a moment before returning to her reading. Philip rolls his eyes in an extravagant manner, but he smiles and helps himself to a heaping spoonful of porridge.

“I think that sounds lovely, Philip. I’d like to see a game, even if it’s just to rub it in Albion’s face,” Florence agrees, and he beams at her.

“Fleamont’s got a cousin on the team, so if we play our cards right, there’s a chance we could get into the player’s box.”

Philip and Florence fall into a conversation then about the rules of the league, who was predicted to win the cup, famous players that had graduated from Hogwarts. Florence enjoys sports well enough, but she finds Philip and generally all of England’s near obsession with the sport somehow endearing. It is during a blow-by-blow recount of the last Appleby Arrow’s match, however, that Lizzie interrupts.

“Florence,” she murmurs, and her voice is cold and hard and the conversation ceases immediately. Ice seems to close around Florence’s heart, her pulse erratic and loud because there is no misconstruing the fear in Elizabeth’s tone. Without another word, the blonde girl folds the paper and hands it across the table to Florence.

Florence has only a moment to read the headline before her entire world is shifted out of focus, blood rushing to her brain so quickly that she wobbles upon her seat, her vision flickering momentarily to black.

_BREAKING NEWS: Ministry of Magic Private Laboratory Attacked Late Last Night – American Businessman and Staff Reported Missing_

Time ceases to exist. All she recalls later is that one moment she is staring into the blue gaze of Lizzie, and the next it has darkened, and Tom is before her, his hands upon her shoulders, his face wide and alert and expressive in a way that it never is as he lifts her from her bench, or perhaps the ground? Had she fainted? Why were there so many people gathered around her and for a moment she has lost sight of Tom, a welling of panic within her so great that her vision threatens to turn black again. But then no, he is there, his eyes upon hers, and she reaches for him – at least she thinks she does because suddenly she can feel his hand in hers.

“Tom,” she whispers, but there is no sound around her, only the blue of his eyes which are too wide and the feel of his palm against hers. “My dad.”

It is a plea.

“I know,” he murmurs, and she is floating, or he is carrying her. Florence does not know the difference, only that her father is missing and her heart is beating so loudly it may burst from her chest.

“Tom,” she whispers again, as if there is something crucial she must tell him, but her tongue is lead and her heart is beating too hard because it feels like a hammer striking an anvil upon her chest, and then Florence remembers no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos!!! you are AMAZING.
> 
> everyone please stay safe out there!


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh baby, after that cliffhanger I figured I'd better churn something out QUICK. Seriously, I have been getting incredible feedback from all of you and it has been absolutely incredible to read all of your thoughts, opinions, and to see what you do/don't like!! As always, I am so grateful for all of your words, they are lovely to read and re-read.
> 
> Also, thank you for all of the kudos, bookmarks, and hits. Over 4000? This is MAD but incredible!!! There are no words for how empowered you make me feel as a writer. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this next update - happy reading!!

**Chapter 33**

“You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.”   
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

When she wakes she is in the hospital wing, night having fallen outside the window, a familiar bottle of Calming Draft resting upon her bedside table. Florence is aware of several things at once – Tom sleeping in the chair beside her, his head leaning back against the stone window sill so that his mouth is partially open in slumber, the simple cotton shift she has been given to wear, and the raging, all-consuming ache within her chest that threatens to suck all air from her lungs. She sits up, scratching at her chest, as if movement might rid herself of the pain, but it seems only to intensify.

Flopping back against the pillows, she lets out a small gasp, the wall of pain sudden and overwhelming so that she barely has the energy to keep her eyes open. _Dad_ her brain thinks, and unbidden the words of the article title float before her eyes. _Attacked. Missing._ How could she have convinced herself that he was safe? All of the European continent was at war, and Clifford Allman had agreed to provide medical potions to fight the darkest wizard in nearly half a millennia. Florence closes her eyes, feeling her pulse spike, the ache within her chest expanding.

“Florence?” A voice whispers, and without opening her eyes she knows that Tom has awoken, because even with his voice thick with sleep her name is a song. Something akin to relief, or as close as possible under her blanket of despair, brushes through her. “Are you awake?”

She gives a nearly imperceptible nod, and seconds later she hears his chair scrape across the stone floor, his hand sliding into hers. He is warm and real and the straining in her chest eases as the thrill of his magic dances up her arm. _Mine_ she thinks somewhat irrationally through the haze of anxiety, her hand tightening around his.

“I have sent for information regarding the article – anyone with any knowledge has been instructed to inform me immediately. As soon as your father’s whereabouts are known, I will tell you.”

Florence opens her eyes at this, rolling her head to the side so that she can stare at him. He is perfectly poised, not a hair out of place upon his head, as if somehow the direness of the situation has made him more capable than usual. The unshakable presence of Tom beside her continues to ease some of the ache within her chest, and Florence nods again.

“Was it Grindelwald?” She whispers, and her voice is raspy.

“Yes.” His voice is decisive, and for once Florence is grateful that he does not mince words, that he is not flowery and verbose. All she wants now is answers. “Or at least, it was men acting on his orders.”

“Do you think he is alive?”

“I think it is a high probability,” Tom concludes, but Florence must swallow anyways because it is not a certainty. “I doubt they were instructed to take prisoners. If your father and his staff are missing, it is likely because they escaped.”

“And you’ll tell me when you hear anything?”

“Of course,” he agrees, although he has already said this.

“Thank you, Tom,” Florence murmurs, and even in the moonlight, through her eyelids which have once more begun to droop, she sees Tom smile, as if her thanks is the only thing that he lives for. This time, when she slips into sleep, the weight upon her chest is slightly lessened, but before the darkness consumes her, Tom’s voice reaches her through the fog.

“I will destroy anyone that hurts you, Florence.”

And it is a sign of her fear for her father that these words bring her comfort.

“Stay with me? Please,” Florence begs, and she’s too hurt and tired and drained to be embarrassed by needing him. That right now, he is the only thing stopping her from screaming until the windows shatter. She tightens her grip on his hand, suddenly terrified that he might walk away because she revolves around him and should he leave, she will be thrown out of orbit, to fall ceaselessly through time and space.

Instead, Tom clambers into the bed beside her, his arm snaking around her waist, his head resting upon her chest. His hair tickles her cheek, the rising and falling of his chest a steady rhythm that she soon matches. Florence’s hand comes to cradle his face, and she feels his lips against her palm, his breath across her skin. Her father is missing, but Tom is holding her, his arms around her the thread holding her mind together.

“ _Mine,_ ” Florence whispers into his curls, and then she is asleep.

Florence is released from the Hospital Wing the next morning with strict instructions to return for a calming draught whenever she feels the need. Tom is not there when she wakes, but summoned to her side as he is through unknown means, he appears as she makes her way towards Care of Magical Creatures.

“You don’t have to return to class so soon,” he says, and she can hear the current of annoyance in his voice, the hard line of his jaw as he has to physically reign himself in. It is through her haze that she remembers their first walk down to Care of Magical Creatures – Tom hounding her for answers on her native magic. _I appreciate control in everything I do_ he’d told her, and now something had happened to Florence out of Tom’s control. “No one is expecting you to.”

“If I sit in that bed all day waiting to hear if my father is all right I’m going to lose my mind,” Florence snaps, and then she winces, at once regretting the harsh tone with Tom who has done nothing but stand by her since she received the news. Florence reaches for his hand, and he gives it to her without question. “I just need to keep my mind busy.”

“You will inform me immediately if you start feeling at all unwell.” It is a command, the voice he uses for Head Boy activities, but Florence is too tired to feel offended. Instead, she squeezes his hand and offers him the biggest smile she can – admittedly small – and rests her head on his shoulder as they walk. Florence knows people are staring, they always do when Tom pulls her close in any public manner, but she had long ago stopped caring. Tom had chosen _her_ , and Florence’s father was missing – she would not be shamed by people who could not understand.

She can feel Tom’s eyes upon her all class as they listen to their Professor describe the preferred diet of a Unicorn foal. Like two daggers being pressed into her back, Florence knows when he is tracing her figure and when he has looked away to speak in hurried sentences to Lestrange or Nott. Through the odd numbness that has overtaken her senses, Florence selfishly hopes that he is inquiring about her father, forcing his will upon the two pure blooded boys to investigate for further information. It seemed so foolish now to think that her father had ever been safe, and if she had been more adamant while they were home for the winter holidays…perhaps this would never have happened.

Stifling a sob, Florence bites down upon her fist and closes her eyes, sucking in a deep breath through her nose. She’d hoped that being outside might help to calm her, to connect her with the spirits of the land and air, but in her current state of hysteria it only services to remind Florence how far she is from her home – that her father is missing.

Her father – who had lifted her onto his shoulders when she was a young girl and walked her through the fields so that Florence could swat at the branches of the Dittany trees. Her father – who taught her how to brew potions and ride horses – who sang under his breath when writing letters and brought his wife flowers every week. Clifford Allman, who was calm and steady and who Florence might never see again. It seemed like too much, an idea too large for Florence to fully grasp.

She wonders if her family knows – if Albion has traveled to Georgia to be with the rest of the Allmans. Are they angry she is not with them? Do they resent her for abandoning them during such a trying time? And has she somehow betrayed them by not begging to return to them immediately? Her teeth sink further into her skin until the metallic tang of blood covers her senses and she whimpers.

“Florence, class is over,” the gentle voice that can only be Tom murmurs some time later, his hand on her lower back like embers and fire and heat – the only thing grounding her to reality.

“Thank you, angel,” she whispers, pulling her knuckle from her mouth and cracking her eyes to see him standing before her, his narrow face fixated upon hers.

“You should return to the Hospital Wing,” he says, but Florence shakes her head no. She needs to go to Transfiguration, because afterward is her private lesson with Dumbledore, and a thought has just occurred to her. Didn’t everyone believe that _he_ would be the one to defeat Grindelwald? Perhaps if she begged him to face the dark sorcerer, their professor could be convinced? It was a wild dream, a feverish fantasy, and yet it seemed to ignite a small spark within her.

“No, I need to go to class.”

“Don’t be stubborn,” Tom chides, and his voice rumbles like thunder, midnight eyes hardening into steel.

“It’s not your decision to make.”

“Fine,” he snaps, and he takes her hand, nearly dragging her up the hill. Florence does not care if he is angry with her – let him be angry. She does not think she will care about anything until it has been confirmed that her father is safe.

Tom physically escorts her to her chair in Transfiguration, and Florence misses the look that is shared between Dumbledore and Riddle as she sets her bag on the floor – questioning, defensive, cold. There is a fleeting moment where he seems to consider taking the seat beside her, but then he is gone taking with him what remains of her heart and Radella is sliding into the chair, only the lingering heat on her shoulder a reminder that Tom had been there. It is only once he is gone that Florence regrets not returning to the Hospital Wing, incapable of pushing away the darkness of her thoughts without the looming figure of Tom beside her.

“Florence,” she whispers, and it holds none of the joy that had been there when discussing her trip to visit Owen. “I saw the papers – I’m so, so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Florence replies, but her eyes remain focused upon the grain of the desktop, certain that if she makes eye contact with anyone else she will spiral into tears. She is an Allman, and she will not betray weakness, not even now. But when Radella takes her hand under the table and gently squeezes, Florence does not pull away, allowing her own hand to tighten, to hold onto her friend.

Transfiguration, which usually passes in a blur of agony as Florence fails spell after spell seems to speed by on this particular Monday afternoon. Beside her, Radella’s casting is flawless, silently tapping the various food items before her and increasing or decreasing the quantity upon a whim. Under normal circumstances, Florence would have been in awe, now the smell of fluxuating amounts of Shepard’s pie makes her nauseous.

Florence does not even lift her wand, and blessedly, a small symbol of grace, Dumbledore pointedly ignores this – even going to so far as to award Radella house points on her way out of the classroom instead of during the lesson so as not to draw attention to their table. Radella pats the top of Florence’s head as she leaves class, casting her a wistful smile, and then she and Dumbledore are alone, the classroom once again silent.

“I am glad to see you are out of bed,” Dumbledore begins the moment the door has begun. “I do believe that activity often helps to distract the mind from grief.”

“Yes sir,” Florence says, her voice somewhat mechanical after sitting in silence for an hour.

“I am terribly sorry about your father, Florence,” he continues, conjuring a purple padded chair and seating himself on the other side of her desk. Glancing up, Florence notes that the distinctive twinkle in his gaze is absent, and something inside of Florence is touched.

“Of course,” he resumes, perhaps aware that she does not wish to speak at the moment. “If there is anything myself, or any of the staff here at Hogwarts can do for you, we would be more than happy to oblige within reason. You will be pleased to know that we received word from your family inquiring after your health, and that both the Ministry for Magic and MACUSA have launched a full scale investigation into the matter.”

“Do they…” Florence feels the air leave her lungs. “Do they think… he’s…”

“Do they believe your father is alive?” Dumbledore supplies, peering at her over his half-moon spectacles. “Yes, that is the professional consensus. There were no bodies nor indeed signs of struggle found at the sight, but nor are there any clues to your father’s possible location.”

“But you think that’s good, right?” Florence asks, and this time she leans forwards, desperate for something to hold onto, for a tiny splinter of hope.

“Quite good!” Dumbledore says, and he smiles at her kindly. An iron band around her ribs seems to crack, allowing air back into her system.

“And if they find him, do you think he will be a target again?”

This question gives Dumbledore pause, his fingers lacing together before him. Florence watches his face closely, attempting to detect any of the emotions that may be passing through the old man, but she can see nothing.

“I do not believe your father himself was a target, only his production,” Dumbledore says slowly, as if weighing every word. “Grindelwald’s war for magical supremacy has long been at a stalemate, and discouraging England from further intervention seems to be his main goal.”

“But my father could still be in danger, if he is found and continues making Dittany Concentrate for the Ministry?”

“It is a possibility,” Dumbledore agrees, and his voice is grave.

“Professor,” Florence begins, and she hears her voice waver. It had seemed simple before, asking him to stand up to Grindelwald, but staring at her aged teacher now, Florence felt a wash of guilt. _How selfish – to ask him to risk his life for someone you care for._ And yet, she felt called to speak, to do something that even in the smallest of ways might benefit her family. Yet Dumbledore, as perceptive as he is, speaks first before she can make up her mind either way.

“Miss Allman, if I may, you have just undergone an incredible shock within the past forty-eight hours. Perhaps it will be best if you just say whatever words you are chewing upon without regard for my wellbeing at the time – I am quite a bit older and more experienced at deflecting potentially offensive comments.”

“Can’t you do something about Grindelwald?” Florence spits out, and then in horror she claps her hand over her mouth. For the first time since her father was reported missing Florence does not wish for her family’s presence, certain that her mother would disown her on the spot for the lack of manners she has just displayed – even under duress. Professor Dumbledore, however, chuckles.

“Florence, if you were the first person to ask me that, I would not have encouraged it,” he soothes, and inch by inch Florence’s hand falls from her face and back to her lap. “The Minister has been writing to me every three days for nearly a year asking me to deal with the situation if you must know.”

“But then…why haven’t you?”

She knows its unfair for her to ask, and yet her father has gone missing, and at no point has Professor Dumbledore suggested he is incapable of dealing with the threat of Grindelwald, leading her to believe that perhaps the gossips _were_ correct for once.

“Why does anyone _not_ do anything?” He asks, although not unkindly. “Because they are afraid. May I ask you a question in return?”

“Yes, of course, Professor.” Florence does not even think about denying him, her mind still reeling with the possibility that a man who seemed to emit magic could feasibly grapple with fear.

“Why did you come to Hogwarts? I am aware that you were receiving a prime education at the hands of a well sought after governess, and as you have demonstrated to me through our lessons, you have a grasp on practical magic that is unique to your family and the native peoples of America, so then why come here?”

“Because I didn’t want to give in to everyone’s expectation of me just marrying another boy from Spectre and never becoming anything or seeing anything,” Florence whispers. “I didn’t want to miss a chance to be more, and if I did end up marrying a boy from home and being like everyone else, I wanted it because _I_ had chosen it, not because it was chosen for me.”

Dumbledore nods, as if Florence has said something very profound.

“It is a common understanding of youth, a conviction that we must prove ourselves, that there are opportunities to be missed,” Dumbledore echoes, and Florence feels herself leaning forward, hanging upon each of his words. “But when you reach my age with more of your life behind you than ahead, you fear not future choices, but past decisions – and their consequences.”

“I don’t understand, Professor,” Florence whispers. Dumbledore smiles and nods his head in her direction. “Are we still talking about Grindelwald?”

“You will forgive me for speaking in riddles,” he said in a voice that highlighted he had no intention to speak with more clarity. “I do believe that before the end we may both have more in common than it first seemed, although for your sake, I hope this is not the case.”

“Sir?”

“Mr. Riddle will be attending your debut, I assume?” Dumbledore asks, chancing topics seemingly upon a whim, leaving Florence reeling. Florence could not see how this was all connected.

“Yes, but how did you…”

“Know? You will find that there are few things I am unaware of that occur within the walls of Hogwarts, And,” he adds almost as an afterthought, “I was made cognizant of your societal expectations by Headmaster Dippet when you were enrolled here at Hogwarts.”

“I see,” Florence says, but she doesn’t, somewhat unsure of herself, of the changes in topic.

“It will do Tom well to have a positive goal to pursue, I think. I only hope that it is not too late to have an effect upon him.”

“Pursue?” And now Florence truly is lost, frozen in her chair while Professor Dumbledore seems to peer through her, blue eyes like microscopes.

“Tom has quite lofty goals, Miss Allman, although I am certain you are aware of this.” Dumbledore tucks his chin into his chest, one hand running through the scraggly ends of his beard as he falls within himself in thought. “But it is vital to remember that life happens as much in the small spaces as much as it does those earth shattering moments which seem to rewrite time. Tom, I think, forgets this.”

Florence remains silent, watching Dumbledore as his eyes close and his chest rises and falls steadily. There is truth there, in the Professor’s words – that Tom dreams of magic and realities that do not exist – but Florence knows too that he sees, or at least since her acquaintance, those tiny things about her. The smile when she masters a charm, forcing her to eat when she is forgetful, fingers which draw lines from freckle to freckle across her face. Perhaps _she_ had shown him this, and the thought warms something that has been frozen in her chest for the past two days.

“I cannot of course confirm to you that I will be facing with Grindelwald – it is a matter that is intensely private, and of course, it would require the utmost secrecy. So, let us say for the time being, that your concerns regarding my involvement have been heard and validated by myself.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Florence murmurs, and she knows there will be no further discussion on the topic. He smiles at her.

“And now, if you are feeling up to it, I thought we might move on to working with mice.”

.

.

.

Each day without news is longer than the next, the end of March dragging along slower than cauldrons of viscous, bubbling potion, or enchanted hour glasses which measure centuries, not minutes. Lizzie provides Florence with nightly dreamless sleep potions, a quiet showing of solidarity so that memories of her father will not haunt her even in slumber, while her family sends her near daily updates in the form of letters – each of them echoing the sentiment that they longed to be with her during this time.

The Hogwarts professors, for their part, turned a blind eye to her abysmal homework assignments, stamping _Acceptable_ at the top of scrolls that a first year could have written, pointedly ignoring her lack of class participation. Radella cheered her up with surprise treats she had hustled from the kitchens, and Philip by letting her plan activities for their Easter Holiday trip. Florence had momentarily considered cancelling, but Philip and Lizzie had convinced Florence that time away from Hogwarts and a steady supply of sea air would be good for her constitution. In the end, she agreed, the castle growing to feel more and more like a prison as each day went by.

Tom was the most reticent in his support, perhaps because they already spent so much time together before the news had arrived, or because he was attempting to be strong while Florence’s grasp on reality slipped day by day. It did not matter, in the end, that he did not whisper gentle nothings into her ear – his presence was enough, the letters from Ministry officials that Tom had somehow gotten his hands upon Florence’s only lifeline.

“Well?” Tom asks one day over breakfast as Florence sets down the government missive dated for the day prior. “Any news?” He’d handed her the letter without even opening it, his hand coming to rest upon her thigh under the table as Florence tore at the paper.

“No changes in status. MACUSA is sending a Tactical Detection Team to inspect for magical residue,” Florence says, passing him the letter.

“No news is good news,” Tom reminds her, and Florence nods. They had agreed that the longer they went without hearing word of a struggle or of remains implied a higher probability of survival.

“My Uncle Corbinas works in the DMLE,” Pyrrhus says across the table, his typically buoyant face somewhat subdued, “and he says finding your dad is the Ministry’s top priority right now. I’m sure he will turn up soon.”

It is possibly the most genuine thing Avery has ever said to Florence, and she smiles at him, laying her hand on top of Tom’s under the table.

“Are you sure that you should go with Burke to the Ilse of Wight?” Tom asks under his breath, his voice rocky in his displeasure. This is a conversation they have had every day this week, and Florence is unsurprised when he brings it up again since she is set to depart early tomorrow morning.

“Yes, Tom. I can’t sit around here for the entire holiday and wait.”

“I will be here,” he says plainly, as if he has made a particularly insightful argument for her to stay. Florence gives him a weak smile.

“I have already made up my mind, and I have already told you that Philip says you can come if you want too.”

She doesn’t want to argue, possessing so little strength these days to even make it out of bed, but Tom has spent countless hours hounding Ministry officials on her behalf, and Florence does not feel that she can just shut down the conversation. The tendons in his neck threaten to snap as he glowers at her.

“And if I receive word while you are away?”

“You can send me an owl.”

“Why are you so stubborn?” He hisses.

“You know getting out of Hogwarts is what’s best for me right now,” Florence counters.

Tom’s hand tightens around her leg, and then he lets out a slow stream of air. Florence leans forward so that her head rests on the point of his shoulder, his presence warm and familiar even through the scratchy emerald material of his sweater.

“I wish you were coming. The idea of a week apart makes me feel ill just thinking about it,” Florence admits, just loud enough so that only Tom can hear her over the din of the Great Hall. She shifts her face to meet his gaze, and he smirks at her, insufferable in his confidence even now. Tom had not told her why he could not venture over the Easter Holiday, only explaining that he was not able to travel. Sensing a dead end, Florence had let it be.

“Perhaps I will not let you leave,” Tom whispers, and his breath is warm in her ear, the smell of fresh laundry and general cleanliness washing over her. “You are mine after all. I could lock you in my room and make you stay.”

“I do not think you would find me very pleasant under those circumstances,” Florence laughs, and there is a lightening in her heart because she hasn’t laughed in days. Tom smiles at the sound, true and wide, and she captures it in her mind, to relive over the next week they are apart.

"I want to make you stay," he murmurs, and his voice is even lower as if in a threat, midnight gaze shrinking as his pupils dilate. "To tie you to my bed where I can always account for you, where even at night I will not have to wonder if you are well."

Florence's brain seems to fritz, her mind suddenly blank as a coil of desire seeps through her stomach. _How can he just say something like that? At the dining table?_ She reaches for him, pressing a kiss to the point of his jaw that is sharp and angular and reminds her of cut glass despite being surrounded by hundreds of prying eyes. She has no response other than this, what is there to say?

“Will you write to me, even if you don’t hear anything about my dad?” Florence asks. Tom’s face is at once blank, and she smiles at his sudden onset shyness.

“You’ll only be gone for a week,” he points out, his voice smooth and cool.

“Please, Tom,” Florence murmurs, watching his eyes for the flash of recognition when she says his name. It is there, brief and unknowable, but like a beacon to Florence – a showing of desire more potent than any words.

He gives her a slight nod, and then returns to his tea, perhaps horrified with himself for giving in so easily, for ceding control to her without a fight. _He should get used to it_ Florence thinks, wrapping her arm through his. 

.

.

.

Philip’s house sits on the edge of a cliff, a beautiful structure made of pale gray stone with near hundreds of windows facing out to the sea. The slate roof has grown thick with lichen and moss, and the paint on the panes and doors is chipping slightly from the salty air, giving the impression that the home is a part of the wild, scraggly landscape. At first sight, Florence feels a loosening in her gut, a release of tension that she had been carrying with her for the past two weeks.

“Lizzie, Florence, your rooms are up there,” Philip says, pointing to a round tower on the western end of the home. “Fleamont, I’ll show you you’re room.”

The four of them pulled their suitcases behind them, setting off to explore every cranny of the house. It was demurely decorated, sparse furniture and a gentle palate that suggested an intent to blend in with the countryside. The kitchen was fully stocked thanks to the Burke family house elves, and there was a wide porch with a striped awning where Florence predicted she would enjoy her morning coffee for the next several days.

“My grandmother used to live here,” Philip explains, taking Florence’s luggage and leading her and Elizabeth up the spiral staircase into a round room with windows at every cardinal direction and a 360 degree uninhibited view. There were two beds within the room and tiny fireplace that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. “If it smells like old lady, that’s why.”

“It’s lovely, Philip,” Florence says, pulling him into a sudden hug that causes the sandy haired boy to blush all the way to his scalp.

“Oi, Burke!” A voice shouts from below, and the moment is broken. The three of them storm down the stairs and into the kitchen, discovering that a door to what can only be the cellar has been thrown open. Philip enters first, followed quickly by Elizabeth and then Florence.

“You never told me your dad collected wine?” Fleamont said, grinning mischievously in his trademark lopsided grin.

“I think my grandfather might have put these down, although I’m sure my father helped grow the collection,” Philip admits, lifting a dusty bottle out of its place and peering at the label in the dim light.

“Did your dad say anything about drinking this stuff?” Fleamont asks, and now his smile is nearly feral. Philip, at once picking up upon the insinuation, offers his own grin.

“Well he certainly didn’t say we _couldn’t_ drink the wine, if that’s what you’re asking, aye Potter?”

“Excellent,” Fleamont chimes, clapping his hands together before perusing through the shelves and grabbing bottles seemingly at random.

By the time the sun is beginning its descent, the four of them are completely inebriated, falling upon one another in spirals of laughter on the back terrace. It has been the most delicious distraction, thoughts of her father’s fate far away as Florence’s mind pulses pleasantly blank, alcohol soothing those worried nerves. The wine is top grade, and the breeze from the Channel just cool enough to warrant blankets, making each of them cozy within their respective seats.

“So, Florence,” Fleamont called from across the table, his glass of wine splashing slightly. His cheeks were cherry red, heightening the ferocity of his smile. “I have to ask – _what_ have you done to poor Tom Riddle? I’ve never seen the prude so much as smile at someone let alone _touch_ them, and now he follows you around like a puppy.”

“Just cause you don’t look like Riddle doesn’t mean you have to be jealous,” Elizabeth laughs from her seat next to Florence.

“Not all of us get marriage proposals from hulking, blonde gods, Greengrass,” Fleamont laughs, nodding his head to her. “I’m looking for tips.”

“Got your sights set on someone, Fleamont?” Florence asks, ignoring the slur in her own words, wine making her tongue heavy.

“Well I did, but seeing as she won’t shut up about your brother, it seems I may be in the market again.”

Fleamont takes a long sip from his glass while the remaining three gathered attempt to reign in their surprise.

“Radella?” Florence gasps. “You like _Radella_!”

“One point for Allman, although it seems like I gave it away,” Fleamont says, smiling smugly.

“You don’t seem very cut up about it,” Philip points out. Fleamont grins.

“Well, Euphemia MacMillan has turned into the loveliest young lady, I’ve noticed. I’m hoping you’ll give me a plus one to your wedding, Greengrass.”

“You’re ridiculous, Fleamont,” Florence says, wrinkling her nose at him, taking another long gulp of the peppery red wine, allowing her eyes to flicker out to the sky which is now setting in fabulous oranges and reds.

“When you get your heart broken, Allman, you’ll hope for a resolution as strong as mine,” he boasts, and all four of them lean back in raucous laughter. It is preposterous to think her heart will ever break.

.

.

.

Their days are spent in ease, waking late, family style meals upon the terrace, long walks along the cliffside. Philip introduces her to exploding snap, and as planned, they venture to the home pitch of the Chudley Canons only to watch them lose in spectacular fashion. At night they help themselves to Caractacus Burke’s private wine cellar, drinking to his terrible parenting and for giving them free reign of the home.

Rarely is Florence alone, and when she is it is simpler to swallow the fear and paranoia that rises within her. The steady pounding of the waves alleviates the guilt within Florence, and she knows with certainty that she made the right choice to escape Hogwarts for the week. Occasionally she wonders about Radella, how different her trip in America would be given the circumstances, but thankful all the same that Owen would not be alone with his thoughts, that they will have this time together. And in the rare moments her mind is truly still, she thinks of Tom, the beating center of her Universe. If she closes her eyes, she can picture him upon the balcony, chocolate curls restless in the sea breeze, hands wrapped around the wrought iron railing, midnight eyes consuming the skyline like he had painted it himself. She misses him – misses him to the point of numbness, but it was at least a distraction. Florence knew she would see Tom again, her father, however…

It is Thursday morning when the owl arrives at the kitchen window.

Florence is the only person awake, having drunken herself into slightly less of a stupor than the rest of the household, she finds herself alone in the home, wandering from room to room with a steaming cup of coffee clasped in her hands. She is admiring several pastoral paintings in one of the sitting rooms when she hears the unmistakable _tap tap tap_ of a beak upon glass. Curious, and somewhat terrified of what it could mean, she meanders back into the kitchen to find a handsome barn own perched on the sill, occasionally rapping the window with its beak.

“Alright, be patient,” Florence, grumbles, ignoring the spike of fear in her chest. Even before the window is open, she recognizes the neat, sharp handwritten upon the letter. It can only be from Tom.

The owl extends its leg to her, and then swoops once more from the window before she can say thanks, leaving her alone with rising levels of nausea and anticipation alike. Unsure if it is better to get on with it or to delay, Florence seats herself at one of counter stools and rips at the wrapping.

_Dear Florence,_

_Before you let your mind run away from you – no, we have not received word on your father’s whereabouts. Need I remind you, no news is good news._

_I am not in the habit of participating in casual correspondence unless it is for the purpose of sharing information, knowledge, or ideas. You will forgive me then if I have no idea how to begin or what it is you wish for me to convey. I can only express that you have been on my mind since you left my sight nearly five days ago, a weight I cannot remove no matter how many books I consume. I admit there have been times in the past I was convinced you had bewitched me, but knowing now that you are incapable of bewitchment, I must conclude that we have formed magic between the two of us which in the absence of, I find only unbearable pain._

_I will not say that I miss you – it is base and humane and the lowliest expression of the space you occupy within me. Instead, I will tell you that I plan to carve your name into time itself, that I will make you queen of everything I have._

_Find me when you return to Hogwarts._

_Tom_

Florence can hardly see through her tears, the ache within her chest so pronounced she must hunch over to ward away the pain. She can picture it now, the way he sits straight backed in his chair, his hand delicately curved around the eagle feather quill that some Slytherin or another gave him, his face indeterminate in his concentration. Had he agonized over these words, or were they phrases he’d been holding within himself for months? Did he understand the effect they would have on her? Florence’s mind seemed to cover so much and yet nothing all at once.

Suddenly she longs to return to the confines of Hogwarts, to trap herself within the endless maze of corridors and stairwells. Tom is there, _her_ Tom, and with him her heart. She misses him. She misses him so much that every breath not in his presence feels traitorous, as if she has betrayed him by choosing her mental health over time at his side.

She is drifting in a cloud of haze when the second knock on the window came, and turning, she sees another owl – this one horned – tapping on the glass. Moving through her fog, Florence at once recognizes the handwriting upon this letter to also be Tom’s, although her name is slanted at an angle that suggested he’d written it in a hurry. Without thinking, Florence tears it open and unfolds the parchment, only a single line written in the same hasty font.

_They have found him – he is alive._

Florence screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man oh man did I agonize over that letter from Tom, but I think I'm happy with how it turned out.
> 
> Everyone please continue to stay safe wherever you are!! Also, if I made a playlist inspired by this story, would anyone be interested?


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being here and happy reading!!! Xx

**Chapter 34**

“You think that holding someone hard will bring them closer. You think that you can hold them so hard that you'll still feel them, embossed on you, when you pull away.  
Every time Eleanor pulled away from Park, she felt the gasping loss of him.”   
― Rainbow Rowell, Eleanor & Park

Tom sits in Dippet’s office, one leg thrown over the other in a display of casualty to hide the thundering in his chest, his impatience to see Florence’s distinct caramel head appear in the Headmaster’s fireplace. Across the room Dumbledore and Merrythought both stand before Dippet’s desk, discussing under their breath the continuously changing circumstances surrounding Clifford Allman. Tom could care less – he’s spent six miserable days without her, again confounded by her ability to just _leave_ even if it’s only for vacation and even if he’d be invited as well. It is infuriating, and some part of him wishes he could rush the clock forward six years and ask for her hand now – to make her tie to him official so that she would be forced to remain by his side for the rest of time.

Tom had known of Clifford’s health before the Hogwarts staff having received a missive directly from Leonidas’ father – the acting head of the Auror office – stating only that the Allman patriarch and his staff had been found alive but unconscious. He’d raced off to the owlery to deliver a message to Florence, cursing his luck that he’d just sent his prior letter hardly half an hour before but desperate to be the first to inform her of the news. Tom had then retired to his room, pacing back and forth until he was summoned to the Headmaster’s office.

“Ah, Tom, good,” Dumbledore had said cheerfully when he appeared in the Headmaster’s study, face carefully ruled so as not to reveal the knowledge he possessed. It would not, he was certain, go over well if the Hogwarts teachers became aware of his connections within the Ministry.

“Professors,” Tom had said, giving a curt nod to both Dumbledore and Merrythought. “Headmaster,” he added, with an even deeper bow. “What is it I can do for you.”

“Yes, Tom, good to see you,” Dippet rushed in to say, always impatient to move through formalities.

“We believed that you would be relieved to hear that Miss Allman’s father has been found, and while in poor health, is excepted to make a full recovery,” Dumbledore supplied with a smile that did not reach his eyes. Tom was accustomed to this look – deep scrutiny from the man who believed himself superior. Riddle’s face did not flinch, but his vision flickered red for a moment before he regained his cool.

“That is wonderful news, Professor,” he replied calmly. “What is it you need from me?”

Tom noted that there was a flash of what could only be disappointment in Dumbledore’s eyes, a fury mounting in Tom that was unrelated to the news. Had the old fool expected him to break down in tears because Florence’s waste of a father had been found? The same man who believed himself worthy of deciding Florence’s future? No, Tom would celebrate only the return of Florence’s focus to him, the certainty that with Clifford Allman’s safety confirmed that her world would once more come to orbit his sun.

“We thought it best to inform those here at Hogwarts closest to Florence to relay the news.”

“Thank you for your consideration, Headmaster,” Tom replied with another bow.

“We have sent word to Miss Allman regarding the news,” Merrythought interrupted, and Tom recalled that she was the head of Ravenclaw. “We have connected Dippet’s floo to the Burke home and expect her to be returning to Hogwarts within a few hours should you care to wait for her.”

Tom considers, painfully aware of Professor Dumbledore’s eyes upon him. To stay was a possible display of weakness, to go would mean putting himself through the unnecessary agony of waiting. In the end, he gave in to the selfish need to be the first face she saw through the flames, and Tom seated himself across the hearth without another word.

It has been nearly two hours since he’d sat down, and still there was no movement, there had been no return owl. Idly, he wonders if Florence had been home when the letter reached her, or if she and the rest of her friends had been in town or on a walk, painfully aware of her particular fondness for long strolls. He wonders too if his first letter – the one he had spent nearly five days writing and then rewriting – has landed in her hands. Would she laugh at him? Would she cry at his words? Would it mean nothing to her at all?

Tom uncrosses and then re-crosses his legs, infuriated that he is being forced to wait.

His agony is put to an end only a breath later as the fire suddenly roars to life, green flames spitting forth the bronzed, narrow figure of Florence Allman. Tom’s hands clench around the arms of his chair before silently he gets to his feet. For one terrible second her umber gaze is directed towards the teachers, and then as if a moth drawn to light, her eyes find his and the world is righted once more. Without hesitation she goes to him, her arms wrapping around his torso, his own pulling her into him where Tom can press her face to his neck.

“Miss Allman,” Dippet calls, and before Tom’s needs have been sated, she is gone from his grasp, only the tingle of her magic left upon his fingers. He watches hungrily as she moves to the Headmaster’s desk.

“Where is my Dad? I got your letter – can I see him?” She asks so quickly that her words run into one another. Tom must hide the smile that threatens, the familiar commanding tone ringing throughout the office.

“Your father is currently being kept under maximum security at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies,” Dippet informs her, perhaps with a hint more kindness than his usual brusque tone. This is news to Tom as well who had not received any further information after Lestrange’s letter, having been cooped within the Headmaster’s office since that time. “He is in stable condition, but until he is able to give a statement to the authorities, I am afraid he will not be able to see visitors.”

“Has my family been notified?”

“Various forms of contact, including an international portkey with a MACUSA official have been sent to your family estate in Georgia,” Dippet reassures her. “As soon as we receive word from your mother, we will update you on their travel intentions.”

“And they think he will survive,” Florence asks, and Tom notes with a curl of frustration that she directs the question to Dumbledore.

“Clifford is expected to make a fully recovery,” the Transfiguration professor informs her with a smile. Florence’s shoulders slump, and Tom has to physically restrain himself from reaching for her.

“You have undergone an undue amount of strain over the past several weeks Miss Allman,” Merrythought concludes, smiling kindly at the girl. “I suggest a spot of dinner – Mr. Riddle here can take you to the kitchens, and then rest. We will notify you immediately should any circumstances change.”

“Have they said where he was?” Florence asks, her brow scrunched in concern so that the space between her freckles shrinks.

“No, details relevant to the case have not been shared beyond your father and his staff’s wellbeing,” Dippet says, and Tom can hear that his patience is gone.

“Dinner, I think, Miss Allman,” Dumbledore encourages, and with a noncommittal nod, she turns to face Tom, both hands latching onto his arm as if he is the singular thing keeping her aloft. The moment they are out of sight of the teachers, Florence’s head falls upon his shoulder.

“I missed you,” she whispers. The words are like stones dropping into his stomach – heavy and strong and perfectly placed to fill the hole within his chest. Tom doesn’t want to take her to the kitchens – he wants to whisk her away to his room where he doesn’t have to share her, but he restrains himself.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, and blessedly, as if she can sense his thoughts, Florence shakes her head no.

“I don’t think I could eat right now to be honest.”

This is the only encouragement Tom needs, and sliding his hand into her own, he tugs her down a few corridors, through a hidden passage, and finally through the wooden door into his chambers. Hardly has the door shut behind him before Florence is in his arms, fingers threading through his hair.

“ _Tom_ ,” she whispers, and he can’t tell if she’s tired or about to cry, and the sound like a wounded animal compels him to snake his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Even broken, his filthy muggle name is beautiful on her lips. _She should never have left. She should have stayed with me at Hogwarts_. _She is mine_.

“I have you,” Tom says, tucking her head under his chin and steering Florence towards his bed. Her body trembles within his grasp, and he wonders if his words were more to comfort himself than her.

“I thought knowing he was alive would make me feel better,” Florence murmurs as Tom lifts her and places Florence on the edge of his bed. He can see already that her eyes are red around the edges, hear the sniffles that threaten. He’s never seen someone cry so much, and yet each time she does, it is for a different reason. It is enough to give Tom whiplash.

“Would you prefer that he was dead?” Tom asks, and he cannot keep some of the coldness from his voice. He doesn’t want her crying, he wants to kiss her for _fucks sake_ , to lay beside her and touch her wherever he pleases, to hear her laugh and tell him every single irrelevant moment of her trip to the Isle so that he can relive it with her.

“Of course not!” Florence responds adamantly, somewhat affronted, but Tom notes that the sniffling has stopped.

“Then try not to focus upon what may have occurred over the past several weeks. We will know it time, and for now it is enough that he is alive and safe.”

“You’re right,” Florence grumbles, and Tom feels himself smirk. _I always am_.

He steps back slightly, allowing his gaze to absorb every facet of her being. _How can it have only been a week_ he thinks as his eyes trace the stray wave of hair that has been tucked behind her ear, as he notes the flush of her cheeks which is regretfully not due to any action of his. Florence’s hands knot before her, the white fabric of her skirt riding up slightly to reveal the creamy skin of her thigh. Tom has the strange urge to press his lips to the skin there, to slide between her legs and eliminate the stiffness she is carrying.

“I’m going to call for tea,” he says instead, stepping back out into the hall and speaking into the air. A house elf appears with an echoing _crack_ , bald head bobbing in a low bow. It is at most a minute later that Tom re-enters his room with a steaming tray of tea, biscuits, and several varying containers of cream, sugar, and honey – but he turns to find Florence sprawled across his bed, her chest rising and falling in the unmistaken, steady rhythm of sleep. Tom feels himself smile, and then then stifles the grin at once, uncomfortably aware that every action since he had been summoned to Dippet’s office was that of a simpering fool. _You are stronger than your emotions_ Tom reminds himself firmly, setting the tray of tea on his desk and pouring himself a cup.

Pulling his wand from his robe pocket, Tom silently levitates Florence’s legs – which still hang over the edge of the bed – and straightens her upon the top of the mattress before charming the spare blanket to cover her. He then summons the parchment he has been reworking in an attempt to master flight.

Tom will never tell Florence that he spent the better part of the past week when not working on his letter to her trying to master the air. He’d wanted to beat her too it. He never shares his failures.

The fire is the only sound beyond the occasional rustle of a page, a gentle exhale from Florence, the clink of his cup upon his saucer. Tom finds it is so much easier to focus with Florence accounted for, her person easily within his sight and reach. Several times he must stop himself from waking her, asking for her opinion on Latin verb tenses or word placement. Having unsuccessfully convinced her of his methods for controlling the air, Tom was now determined to perfect his spell alone. He ignored the voice in his head that said he wanted to impress her, to see her eyes glow with the appreciation he looked for from no one else.

It is well past midday by the time Florence stirs, her body rousing slowly from the depths of sleep to which she’d been pulled. Tom notices her movement out of the corner of his eye, but he remains focused on his task at hand, waiting for her to summon him. He does not have to wait long.

“Tom,” Florence calls, propping herself upon her elbows, head rolling to the side so that the skin of her neck is exposed to him. He takes a moment to finish his sentence before at last setting down his quill, rewarding her with his gaze. She smiles, and he does in return.

“Has there been any word on my Dad?” she asks.

“I have not received anything.”

Florence’s eyes turn towards the window at his words, as if an owl might suddenly appear at her beck and call. Her face, which is always an open display of emotions, sags slightly, chin dropping down to her chest as she lays back upon his pillow, eyes fluttering closed.

He wonders if it will smell like her when he goes to sleep tonight, and then suddenly his pants are too tight. Tom crosses his legs.

“Will you stop staring at me and come over here,” Florence’s voice commands a moment later, and Tom feels his face break out into a smirk he would never consider hiding because he loves when she wants him, when her desire gets the best of her pride and she caves to those needs. Getting to his feet, Tom peels off his robes and steps out of his shoes before clambering onto the bed beside her, drawing Florence into his embrace. It is simple really, how perfectly they fit together – his arms around her, hers around him, Florence’s face nestled into his neck so that her breath warms him like dragon fire.

He remembers when he met her – their first lesson where she’d thanked him twice, where she’d told him he made magic look easy, when he’d listened to her beg for something for the first time. He’d wanted to punish her, to torment Florence for being born into wealth and affluence and all of the things he deserved but had been denied. How foolish he’d been, how painfully small minded he realizes as he presses his lips to hers, feeling Florence stir beneath his touch. This connection is a power he has never known – Florence Allman has shown it to him, and after only a week apart, Tom now understands how vital it is to him – as if an emptiness he had never known had been revealed, and then filled.

“Do you know how to waltz?” Florence asks when they finally pull away from one another. Tom feels himself frown, annoyed with her ability to surprise him still.

“Yes, Abraxas forced me to take lessons with him for his annual Yule party a few years ago.”

“Good, I’m reserving the waltz at my debut for you,” she murmurs, sinking into his pillow once more. Tom’s jaw tightens, his hands moving on their own to trace the lines of her face.

“I had assumed all of the dances would be reserved for me,” Tom whispers, that strange glow he associates with Florence pulsing in his chest.

“I’ll have to dance with my brothers. And my dad,” she says with a small sigh. “But the rest of them are yours.”

“Any other plans for me?” Tom asks, amused by how her mind wanders in the before-moments of sleep. He can’t remember if he’s ever been amused by anyone before, unless it was at their expense – to make a mockery of them.

“We need to go see Illini. She was sad you were not with me when I was home for my fitting.”

“Alright,” Tom agrees easily. Florence’s fingers are playing with the buttons of his shirt, but it is idle, gentle movement that does not suggest further intention. He watches her face, the wrinkle in her brow the only warning that he was before Florence shifts into action, sitting up so suddenly that his hands fall from her body in surprise. They do not remain empty for long, and as he angles to face her, Florence takes his hands within her own.

“Tom,” she says, and he wants to laugh because he can tell she is trying to be serious, but her cheeks are red and she’s fighting the smile that pulls at the corners of her mouth.

“Yes, Florence?”

When did their names become a conversation in itself? Two words that meant more to him than any other, most powerful when they were said in tandem, like parts of one whole. _Florence. Tom. Florence. Tom_.

“I’d never thought about what I wanted to do when I was older, I’ve never considered having a career before because no one until you had asked.” Her voice is warm with unsaid praise, and he feels his chest constrict slightly. He’d never considered the cages Florence had been raised within, different from his own – poverty, an orphan, without prestige – but Florence had been stymied in other ways – denied a full education, reduced to her gender, her future forfeited to her family. Tom had thought her foolish when she had told him she endeavored to live in the moment, but maybe that was her only resource when no one thought she might aspire to more.

“But I have been thinking about it now, thanks to you,” she continues, and her voice grows tight and her hands enclose around his. “And I really do think I want to ask my father for a job, a real paid position on the estate managing fields and teams of staff. I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more, to be honest.”

“Your father would be a fool not to hire you,” Tom encourages, and he means it. The land sings in her veins – Florence could run the estate now if she really wanted too.

“But if he does…” Florence sucks in a deep breath, and then exhales, smiling sheepishly at him. “It’ll mean I’ll be living in America, and you’ll be here teaching or off traveling or becoming the youngest Minister for Magic in the history of the world or something else miraculous I can’t even imagine – but we’ll be so far apart.” Tom’s brain seems to slow – he’d never considered be separated after Hogwarts – in some foolish corner of his mind Tom had just assumed that by saying yes to attending Florence’s debut, that she would be beside him for the rest of time. Yet before he can speak, Florence presses on.

“We’ll be so far apart. _Gods_ saying it makes me feel ill because this past week without you was like _torture_ and I think I’ll die if I have to go months without being around you, but I’ll give you access to our estate wards and I’ll buy you a personal portkey into my very bedroom if I have too, and of course I’ll come visit you every chance I have.” Florence’s chest is rising and falling as her tempo increases, and he can tell she is frantic, desperate to say this and for Tom to hear her. “I thought I was going to lose my mind when you hadn’t given me an answer about my debut, but now I think I might truly go mad with the idea that you may not want me if there’s an ocean between us-”

“Florence,” Tom tries to interrupt, but she charges on ahead of him.

“And you’ve helped me to realize I _do_ want to have a career. I’m not saying for the rest of time, but even just for a few years I’d like to work because I’m not quite ready to give up my family and my land, and then I’ll follow you wherever you’d like – to the ends of the Earth I don’t care. But please tell me you’ll still be mine, at least for these first few years once we’ve graduated?”

Tom sits up as she speaks so that they are eye to eye, their breath mingling between the two of them. He wonders how many thoughts she keeps bottled within her mind, how he can get her to reveal them. He’s so stunned by the earnestness in her eyes it is several moments before Tom realizes she’s stopped speaking.

“It was torture for me too,” Tom admits, and he is too caught up in the moment to be ashamed of his honesty. “Being away from you.”

When Florence smiles at him, Tom feels an irrational welling of joy so rare he is terrified by its implication.

“I told you I would carve your name into time itself – a few years is nothing, _nothing_ to me, Florence. You are mine, and I want the best version of you for eternity. If you need to run a small Dittany empire for a few years to be that best self, then I want that too.”

“And you’ll come visit me?” She asks, and he hears the wobble in her voice, the need that is so open it makes his brain feel erratic.

“I will relocate the entire land mass of Britain off the coast of Georgia if I need to.”

“Oh, thank god,” Florence whispers, sagging against him, her hands knotting in his jumper as if he is the only thing that exists to her.

Tom holds Florence to him, his mind racing as such a velocity that it is nearly impossible to focus upon any one thought. He cannot recall a time in which he has ever held such unflinching loyalty from any other person – his followers respected him out of fear, out of a sense of duty to his lineage. But Florence did not know these things which made Tom truly special, and yet she’d offered to, in time, follow him unquestioningly because…why? Because he’d shown her magic, he’d valued her as more than a last name? He’d challenged her, he’d been the first to suggest she could be more, and she cared for him because of it. How strange that he’d chosen Florence because she made him feel normal, that she chose him because he made her feel special. How perfect.

Tom moves his hands to cup her face, intent on kissing her until she begs him for release, but his actions are halted by the appearance of a glowing white bird – a phoenix at the end of his bed.

“Florence,” Albus Dumbledore’s voice speaks through the maw of the Patronus. “Your father has been cleared to receive visitors. Please make your way to Headmaster Dippet’s office at your earliest convenience where he will send you by Floo to St. Mungo’s.”

The bird vanishes in a cloud of smoke, and then a moment later, Florence is on her feet, searching for her shoes. His body feels cold without hers pressed against it. When at last Florence is ready to go, she turns to find him still sprawled on top of the covers, watching her. Through her blush, Florence gives him a quizzical look, her head falling to the side as she surveys him.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“I don’t believe I was invited.”

“Well I don’t give a shit, I want you there,” Florence says so plainly that Tom almost laughs. Moments later he is on his feet, hand ensconced in hers as they move silently through the corridors back the way they had come only hours prior.

.

.

.

St. Mungo’s is the stark white of sickness, dreary and bland and despite hallways which are bustling with people and amiable chatter, there is an undeniable sense of ill health that makes Tom’s stomach churn. Weak people came to hospitals, those who could not handle their magic, and he loathed to be amongst them.

Florence walked quietly at his side – the only thing redeeming this place – following the healer both in step and in gaze, her eyes locked onto the blonde head which weaved through people before them.

“Your father is doing very well, Miss Allman,” the man explained, checking the visitor’s badge on Florence’s chest for her name.

“Is he awake?” Florence asks.

“He’d just finished his dinner when I left to retrieve you. He was tired, but cognizant.”

Florence’s shoulders slump slightly, and they continue the rest of the way in silence. Tom lets her move slightly ahead of him so that he can watch her from the corner of his eye. They step into a packed lift with several screaming children and a man with stray tentacles sticking out of his neck, and then at last they have reached the proper corridor, and the healer is peeling open the door.

Florence moves faster than Tom has ever seen, her caramel hair a blur as she flings herself into the empty chair at her dad’s bedside. Tom follows a step behind, suddenly uncomfortable to witness the reunion between father and child.

“ _Dad_ ,” Florence whispers, the same hands that had held his own only a short time ago taking her father’s. “How are you feeling?”

“Florie, so glad they let you come see your old man.”

Tom peers at Clifford Allman’s face from across the dimly lit room. He is noticeably thinner, tanned skin loose and hollow around his cheeks, but there is still a depth to his eyes that had been there during the winter holidays. He looked worse for the wear, with bags under his eyes and hair somewhat mussed, but on the whole, untouched.

“What happened to you?” Tom hears Florence whisper, and he has to stuff his hands into his pockets so that he won’t reach for her.

“I’d rather wait until your mother and brothers get here, if you don’t mind, Florie,” Clifford says, his other hand coming to cup her face. Tom has an irrational urge to pull Florence towards him, to tell her father that only _he_ can touch her.

“You said you were safe,” Florence admonishes, and then a beat later she is crying, her forehead resting against the side of the mattress, her hand shaking within his grasp. Tom moves without thinking, resting his hand upon his shoulder, unable to see her in such a state and not feel the magic of her touch. Clifford’s eyes which are Florence’s but colder fix upon him, and both men give each other short, jerking nods.

“Tom, a pleasure to see you again,” Clifford says as Florence wipes her eyes on the edge of the bed.

“I was glad to hear that you were found and safe,” Tom answers mechanically, even though neither is true. With Clifford Allman out of the way, Florence could be his now, _permanently_ , and instead he’s being subjected to dedicate time better spent on other pursuits in this waste of a building.

“Kind of you to say so,” Clifford says, and he attempts a half smile that showcases exactly how tired he is. Tom wants to recoil. “And thank you for looking out for, Florence. I’m sorry that I had to put her through something like this.”

Tom can hear it in Mr. Allman’s voice – the regret, the genuine horror that he had caused his daughter undue stress or pain. _He should be_ Tom thinks, his hand tightening on Florence’s shoulder instinctively. She wipes her eye one last time and then turns to look at him, giving Tom a weak smile. It takes all of Tom’s considerable restraint not to pull her close to him, to whisk her away from the man laying upon the hospital gurney.

“Of course, Sir. I only want the best for her.”

 _I am what’s best for her_ Tom does not say.

And when he meets Clifford Allman’s gaze one more, eyes shifting from Florence’s to her father’s, Tom sees a spark of something else in their chestnut hue – surprise, or perhaps wonder. It is gone before Tom can truly believe it was there, but the patriarch’s voice takes on an odd ring when he speaks next.

“I really believe you do.”

And Tom smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Hope you enjoyed this latest chapter. I'm currently working on chapter 36 (big things are happening folks!!) so I'm hoping to stay ahead of all of you:)
> 
> I did finish the playlist, but I don't want it to spoil anything so I will either share the first half of it in the next few chapters or I will share it at the end, but never fear it is coming! And as always, thank you times a billion for all the comments and kudos and bookmarks! I'm so grateful:)


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wasn't going to update, but I got halfway through chapter 37 and honestly I'm so excited about everything coming up I just rushed to put this out there. Again, I am so sorry for the minor grammatical and formatting errors that you come across. Again, I don't have a beta, and while I do spend hours reading and re-reading and editing, I'm absolutely not perfect so thank you for your patience. 
> 
> Anyways, sorry about some of the things that happen in this chapter...they just needed to, especially the ending.
> 
> (Ok I'm not sorry, I lied...)
> 
> Thanks for being here and happy reading! Can't wait to see what all of you think ;)

**Chapter 35**

I'm gonna take a freight train, down at the station  
I don't care where it goes  
Gonna climb me a mountain, the highest mountain  
Jump off, nobody gonna know

Can't you see oh can't you see  
What that woman, she been doin' to me  
Can't you see, can't you see  
What that woman lord been doin' to me

― The Marshall Tucker Band, _Can’t You See_

It is Owen who picks Florence up from the Spectre portkey location at the end of April, two days before her debut. She’d been given two days off from school due to the fact that she was not eligible to take her N.E.W.T.’s, although Dippet had politely asked Florence not to draw attention to the fact that she was receiving additional time off from school. The fact that Tom too was leaving for America at the conclusion of classes on Friday was the worst kept secret at Hogwarts.

“Florence,” Owen calls, his voice soft like the rolling of hills as he clambers down from the carriage. “Welcome home.”

“Hi, O,” Florence says, pulling the tall, lanky frame of her middle brother into her arms. Squeezing too tight just how he hates it, Florence releases him once more, taking stock of his polished glasses, the rosy tinge to his cheeks that is not usually there.

“What?” He asks defensively, blushing harder under her scrutiny. It is one of the few traits they share – pride that is too big for their britches, and perhaps somewhat higher levels of self-consciousness. It could be a crippling combination.

“I don’t have a letter from Radella if that’s what you’re waiting for,” Florence smirks. Owen’s face is cherry by the time Florence finishes speaking.

“I received a letter from her this morning, so I wasn’t expecting one.”

But Florence notices he rushes to return to the carriage, that it is several minutes before his flush has fully faded.

“How was Easter?” Florence continues, clambering into the front seat beside him. There are several other carriages out on the street, and even an enchanted Model-T that Florence openly ogles. _I’ll have to beg Dad for one of those_ she thinks, admiring the sleek hood, the glass windows. An elderly woman who looks vaguely familiar is helped down from the back seat by a young man in a suit, disappearing into the apothecary.

“Fine, why?”

“Well I didn’t get to ask you when you came to see Dad in the hospital.”

Owen cracks the reigns, and the horses lumber into a trot. Florence waves to a cluster of women outside the Eagle Messaging Service federal office. They all wave to her in return – girls around Albion’s age whom she is acquainted with. How refreshing to be back on land where she was once again someone notable.

“I mean, it wasn’t what I’d hoped given the circumstances,” Owen says as they leave the last building behind, settling back against the seat. “But it was good to have Radella here all the same.”

“You’re serious about her, aren’t you?”

“I think I am,” he agrees, and his voice sounds faint, as if in his myriad years of hypothesizing, caring for another person beyond his family was not something he had truly considered. Florence beams, kicking her feet up onto the front of the carriage in celebration.

“She’s lovely, Owen. Frankly way too pretty for you, and she’s as nice as they come. I can’t think of anything better than the two of you being together.”

“Well, nothing is official, Florence. Don’t run away with your romanticism-” he begins, but Florence cuts him off.

“You invited her to America for an entire week to see you. I think you can at least say that you two are courting.”

“If that is the definition, then will you at least own up to the fact that you and Tom are dating?”

“Sure,” Florence approves with a smile that could be considered savage. Owen’s eyes widen slightly at the confidence in her tone, the certainty that she and Tom are an item. But they were, weren’t they? They had never said it in so many words, but he had said he would be hers even with an ocean between them. The meaning could not be misconstrued.

A word bubbles on her lips, one she feels such terror to say because it feels inevitable to do so. Because she wonders how much of herself she can continue to give to him before she cannot return from what they have built together intact – if she even _wants_ to return from this.

Florence glances out across the road, admiring the world which is leaping back to life amidst a Southern Spring. The air is warm – far warmer than anything she has been accustomed too in Scotland – and already it is perfumed with the undeniable scent of pollen which make her nose wiggle and throat dry. In her mind she can see the acres and acres of azalea fields at Tallulah’s house, the silvery rows of Dittany trees, and her lungs suddenly ache to sing, to call upon the land for the sheer joy of reuniting with it.

With the affirmation that Clifford Allman was once again safe and removed from immediate harm’s way, the following weeks had been nothing but bliss to Florence. She was able to focus on her classes – for the first time managing to produce feathers in her Transfiguration class. Florence had run down the corridors until she’d found Tom after that lesson, pulling him into an empty classroom to reveal the handful of somewhat ruffled black plumes. The fire in his eye had been intoxicating, and he’d kissed her solemnly even though it was magic he could have done when he was a first year.

Lizzie and Philip too were at last approaching something resembling their old friendship prior to the announcement of Elizabeth’s engagement. Florence suspected that it had something to do with her father’s absence, that they had been forced to put aside their differences in order to cope with Florence’s mental upheaval, but it meant that meals were much more enjoyable now that the dust had settled. More than once, Tom was forced to sit amongst the Ravenclaws, silent and stiff and clearly uncomfortable except for the hand that always managed to snake its way onto Florence’s thigh or around her shoulders.

 _It was torture for me too. Being away from you_. The words seem to reverberate in her head, like bells from far over the hill. How liberating it was to comprehend that the same overwhelming emotion that at times petrified her also plagued the person of her infatuation, how uniting. The past three weeks had been the best with Tom, barring perhaps their time over the winter holidays, but those weeks had been plagued by the worry over her debut. Now nothing nagged at her mind – he was hers, she was his. Life had never been more simple or more joyful.

“I’ll see you soon,” Tom had murmured before stooping to kiss her only a few hours prior in his rooms. His lips had been soft but insistent, his fingers pressing so firmly into her side that when she closed her eyes, Florence could still feel the phantom of his touch digging into her skin despite the jostling of the carriage beneath her.

“I won’t be at home when you arrive – Alb, Owen, and I will be at rehearsal, but when I get back to the estate we can go for a walk or to the stables or wherever you’d like,” Florence said, slightly breathless because kissing Tom always seemed to short-circuit her system.

“Whatever I’d like?” Tom mused, tugging at Florence’s hair so that her head fell to the side, exposing the side of her throat to his teeth. A small, breathy noise escapes her, and Florence can feel the rumbling chuckle that rebounds within his lungs. “Twenty-four hours is a long time to be denied you. I suggest you rest well this evening, Florence.”

He presses her name into her skin with his lips, a magic that only he has, a promise and a threat and a song that is incomparable to anything else. Florence’s face had flushed, and he’d pulled away, as if expecting this reaction to his words and wanting to watch the bloom manifest across her face. His smirk burned in her memory. Pressing a final kiss to his ring, he’d let her slip from his grasp, but she’d felt his gaze upon her back until she rounded the corner, turning to look over her shoulder one last time before he disappeared from view. She could still recall him now, framed in the doorway, a perfect marble relic of porcelain skin seemingly from older days – a Roman general or Greek warrior with a high flat forehead and perfect, delicate bone structure. The memory made her mouth water.

“Rehearsals are tomorrow morning from eleven until three,” Owen says, interrupting Florence’s wandering mind. “And Tallulah has invited you over to brunch in the morning at eight – I saw her yesterday when Mom had me delivery a congratulatory bouquet to her on behalf of the family for her debut.”

“How is mom faring?” Florence asks.

Eudora Allman had never been so quiet as she was in St. Mungo’s that day, her haughty exterior broken down by wan skin, darting eyes, hands that clutched at her purse so tight her fingers might snap. If there had ever been any question that a heart lay somewhere beneath her cold façade, it had been in that moment.

“Better now that Dad is home. He’s doing fine too,” Owen adds, turning to look at Florence for a moment. “Your letters really cheer him up you know.”

“Glad I can do something to help,” Florence murmurs, turning to examine the copse of trees they are passing through. “And you? You’re okay?”

Owen does not turn to look at her, but his mouth forms a thin smile that presses into his eyes, his glasses sliding down his nose a fraction of an inch.

“I’ll be fine. I don’t know if I could have handled it if Radella had not been here,” he admits, tugging at the right reign as they round a corner. “Being at home when we got the news…it was like being at prison. Everything reminded me of Dad, and mom was a ghost, and then Albion showed up raging around like a mad bull.”

“I was glad she was here, for your sake. I only wish I could have been here too,” Florence whispers, and her voice cracks somewhat. Beside her, Owen lays a hand on her shoulder for the slightest of moments before returning it to the reigns.

“You’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

.

.

.

When Florence steps out of the Floo the next morning, it is Forsythe – not Tallulah – that greets her. He is waiting off to the side, hands in his jean pockets, a pair of worn leather boots tapping gently on the hardwood floor, staring expectantly into the flames. As Florence exits the fire, pale green eyes like sage crinkle in a smile, arms extending to pull her into a hug.

“Welcome home, Florence,” he says in that slow, gentle voice that makes every girl from Spectre melt into a puddle at his feet. His embrace is warm and easy, enveloping Florence in the mild, floral scent of azalea that haunts this family the way Dittany does the Allman’s. Three years ago Forsythe had graduated from Ilvermorny, moving back to Spectre to take over for his father running the Blount farm. Now, every inch of his being suggested long days in the field, from broad shoulders to weather worn skin to the thin line of dirt under his nails that he would most likely never be rid of. It gave him a comfortable appearance, the hint of stubble on his chin making him appear slightly older than his twenty years.

“Tallulah’s tiara just arrived from Paris so she and my mom are upstairs trying it on, but she’ll be down soon,” he explains, releasing her a moment later, hands still resting on Florence’s waist as he takes her in.

“That explains the lack of screaming,” Florence teases, recalling Tallulah’s shriek when they had first beheld each other over the winter holidays. “Good to see you, Forsythe.”

“Are you excited for tomorrow?” He asks, turning and leading her through the living room and down a hall towards what Florence knows is the dining room. Through the windows she can see row upon row of azalea bushes in full bloom – a sea of pink and magenta and white that blurs across the horizon, so breathtaking that Florence stops at one window to admire the view before continuing after Forsythe down the hall.

“I am,” Florence admits, her mind recalling the imagine of Tom in a tuxedo momentarily before forcibly stowing the thought. There was no need to dwell over that memory so early in the morning. “Although, I’ll be ready for the big to-do to be over with.”

“Lu is excited,” Forsythe agrees, turning to smile at her over his shoulder. “But you know I don’t know half-a-wits difference between elbow length and opera length gloves or any of the things Mom’s been ripping her hair out over, so I can’t say I’ll be sad when it’s all said and done.”

“Oh come on, Forsythe,” Florence teases. “It’s just a big dance with friends not a funeral. You know what to expect.”

He laughs, his head thrown back so that his jaw seems to pierce the air, mouth wide as his bellow echoes throughout the house. Florence smiles at his amusement, all too familiar with his sense of ease from years-worth of interactions.

“My mom would kiss you if she heard you say that,” he says, beaming at her. “She’s been so annoyed with me leading up to this thing.”

“This thing? Now it doesn’t even warrant a name?”

“Fine, _debut_ ,” he laughs again, shaking his head slightly. “But you know me, I can’t dance to save my life, and I can’t start drinking until after the ceremony, so it’s a minor form of torture until then.”

“Albion says he’s sneaking a flask in his jacket for us to share backstage,” Florence informs Forsythe conspiratorially as they turn and pass through the Blount library. It is a large, open space – perhaps not as large as the Allman library, but still pleasing nonetheless with a view out across a velvety field of purple azaleas. “And don’t tell me you can’t dance. Mary Helen Saunders would _not_ be quiet about your skills after she waltzed with you at the Ilvermorny Seventh Year Ball. I had to hear about it for _months_.”

“Gods, don’t remind me,” Forsythe says, and although he is walking in front of her, Florence knows he is rolling his eyes. “She tried to give me a love potion that night – I had to spend the entire evening running away from her.”

It is Florence’s turn to laugh at this revelation, wrapping her arms around her waist and bending double at the image of Forsythe’s towering build ducking and weaving between bodies as Mary Helen and a host of girls follow after him. How amusing that both Forsythe and Tom – seemingly without trying – managed to ensnare the attention of any girl within a fifty foot radius, but unlike Tom, who’s smirks and haughty expression were never far from his face, Forsythe detested the attention. He’d become somewhat of a recluse upon moving back to Spectre, tackling his life upon the farm with vigor, occasionally disappearing to visit friends from Ilvermorny, but otherwise lost amongst his fields at all hours of the day and night. Tallulah was convinced that despite his looks, Forsythe would end up alone – as determined as he was not to buy into the social circles of the day.

“Oh she’d be _so_ embarrassed if she heard you say that,” Florence says, wiping a tear from her eye. “She talks about it whenever I see her as if you’re just waiting to get down on a knee for her.”

Forsythe glowers at her, returning Florence to fit of laughter because despite his size, it is difficult for him to embody any emotion but gentility.

They reach the dining room, Forsythe holding the door open for her to reveal a yellow walled room, the table piled high with platters of fruit and breakfast casserole and mountains of biscuits with sauce boats of gravy. The scent is heavenly, coupled pleasingly with the small squeals of the Blount family house elves, each of them bowing and clapping at Forsythe’s arrival. Forsythe waves them away with a good natured smile and several thank you’s before stopping to pull out Florence’s chair.

Florence, however, has already moved past the table, her eyes fixed upon the fields outside the rear facing window. She moves as if in a trance because in all of the times she’s been to the Blount household, she’s never seen _this._

Flowers – at first sight a shade darker than the sky on a perfectly cloudless day – spread across the horizon until the hedges which divided the fields. They ripple in the wind, waves and waves of them, each petal flecked with varying hues of sky and royal and cornflower blue like a Monet or Cézanne painting come to life. The Blount’s had always specialized in azaleas – but as far as Florence was aware, there were no naturally growing varieties in this shade that gave the ocean life, like a river of blooms. Her hands press against the glass without regard for leaving fingerprints upon the surface, her jaw open slightly at the sight before her.

“Would you like to come see them?” Forsythe asks gently, his voice humming with poorly contained excitement. “It’s something I’ve been working on for the past few years.” Florence turns to see his pale green gaze fixed upon her, and she nods mutely, her mouth still open in shock.

They make their way out onto the back porch and across the lawn, Florence kicking off her heels so that she can walk barefoot across the ground. Forsythe stuffs his hands back into his jean pockets, his face still formed into a smile as he stares out over the fields that Florence unquestioningly understands he loves more than himself, perhaps more than anything. She knows this because she feels the same way about her home – her trees – and it is a look she would recognize anywhere.

“Our sales for potion brewing have been fairly stagnate for the past few years,” Forsythe explains as the approach the edge of the grass, the land giving way to column upon column of flowering shrubs. “I’ve been experimenting with cross pollination, and I finally got a mix between Dalia and Azalea correct to give me this size and shade.”

“What is the benefit of blue then?” Florence asks, curious what added monetary value he would be bringing in by crafting a new species of flower.

“None medicinally,” Forsythe says with a shrug, but he offers her his largest smile when he turns to face her. “They are just beautiful.”

Up close the flowers are even more magnificent than she had imagined. The blooms are larger than the typical azalea, each petal beginning with the palest of blues and deepening to midnight at their center, every individual curve like a slice of an early morning sunrise. Quite unable to help herself in the proximity of plants that sang with a chorus of magic she has never known, Florence takes off down a row, lifting her skirts and sprinting down the aisle so that the blue flowers blur in her periphery, her feet race across the earth.

Coming to a halt near the center of the field, she stops and presses her face into the largest bloom she has seen yet, nearly the size of her hand. It is rich and floral and laughter bubbles within her throat from nowhere because the flowers are nothing more than beauty for beauty’s sake, and she adores them down to every leaf and root and branch.

“They’re amazing, Forsythe,” she gushes, turning to see his figure approaching at a methodical pace, copper hair glistening in the early morning sun like spun gold. He beams at her while Florence returns her gaze to the flowers that dip and bob in the breeze. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“That was the goal,” he says, but his voice is somehow sheepish, as if her praise is something that makes him uncomfortable. “Dad is pleased with them. Our first shipment will go out this year.”

“I’m sure you’ll be sad to see them uprooted,” Florence says, running a finger over one of the petals, its waxy surface smooth and cool beneath her touch.

“Sure,” he agrees easily. “But I’m going to get to help plant them at several of our client’s homes. Looking forward to it, honestly.”

Glancing at the plant before her, Florence finds a bloom that is not yet opened, the petals wrapped around each other like a tiny, blue cocoon. Without thinking, she presses her hand against it, feeling the words of the spirits unfurl within her, and she speaks, low and quiet, hardly more than a whisper.

_“Spirits of beauty and youth and of the flower – purveyor of purity, pollinator and perfumer of the wind, open.”_

She watches as the bud shivers, slowly unfurling, peeling and curving, each petal broadening until the bloom has released completely, resting upon her hand where magic still races between herself and the azalea. Florence can feel herself smiling like a fool because she loves this – to be barefoot and one with the land of her birth, the feeling of being capable and magical and worthy. Around her, the air is humming with enchantment, as if each shrub is waiting to join into her song.

Out of the corner of her eye, Forsythe reaches for the flower she has brought into the world, his skin as dark as hers despite its olive tone from days in the sun. He does not pick it, merely running his thumb across one of the petals before returning his hand to his pocket. Florence, who is still too engrossed in the many exacting shades of blue, misses the way Forsythe’s eyes pan to her profile, the softness that is held there, the undeniable longing in the straight, Grecian lines of his face.

“I was always jealous that you could talk with the plants,” he admits, and his voice is velvet between them. It is only something someone who truly cares for the land would say, for there was plenty of other magic to dream of. “Do they talk back?”

“They sing,” Florence whispers, and she turns to smile at him. Forsythe’s eyes widen with wonder, but whatever it is he planned on saying next fades into memory as another voice joins the fray.

“Will you two farmers get over here!” Tallulah’s voice echoes – magically magnified to reach them from the back door of their home. “Breakfast is getting cold.”

They enjoy their meal and perhaps a few too many mimosas – egged on as they were by Mimsy the nearly blind, severely overweight house elf who continued to top off their champagne flutes. Tallulah and Florence discuss every facet of the upcoming evening down to what girls they think will dance with what boys and how the flowers will be arranged this year. Forsythe sits silently beside his sister, smiling good naturedly at his plate, his gaze frequenting Florence’s face perhaps a few too many times to be innocent, but he does not press her for details about Tom or ask to reserve a dance, and so Florence thinks nothing of it.

Promptly at ten to eleven the three of them step into the family fireplace, Forsythe’s smooth voice calling out for the Spectre Dance Hall, and then they are carried away, floating through the green expanse of Floo travel. They re-appear in a wide hallway where a severe looking woman with thickset glasses ushers them from the fire. Albion and Owen are waiting only a few steps away, as is Tallulah’s cousin who is to be her second escort.

The rehearsal is rigorous, each of Florence’s brothers taking turns walking her down the stairs, bowing, Florence and the other eight girls forced to traipse up and down the steps in their heels and to practice curtsying until their legs shake and ankles threaten to snap. Albion makes the matter worse by mimicking the shrill voice of their instructor whenever her back is turned, reducing both Florence and Tallulah into fits of giggles that earn them several reproachful stares.

The hall is a massive space with a second story balcony and a long red carpet that extends down the center of the room. By tomorrow evening, Florence knows it will be transformed into nothing short of a greenhouse, bedecked in flowers and lights, the crowd dressed to the nines, the band stationed in one of the corners, but for now it echoes with the debutant’s and their escort’s murmured conversations, the creaking of chairs that are being set out for guests, and the palpable rising tension, like a wave of excitement beginning far off shore, growing steadily closer. Florence cannot help but feel swept away by the adrenaline, and as she moves down the stairs for her third rehearsal, she looks out across the room and imagines Tom’s face – hungry and shining and desperate for her in that way that makes her melt. Thinking of him reminds her that Tom will be at her home when they return, and suddenly she is anxious to leave, to be within his presence once more.

At last they are told they are free to return home, and with a final hug to Tallulah and a wave to the other debs, Florence steps into the fire after her brothers, throwing green powder into the flames. She is disappointed at once not to find Tom’s serious gaze awaiting her in the sitting room, but bidding her brothers an immediate farewell that they both smirk at, she sets off to find him, determined not to spend another minute outside of his company.

Tom is not beneath the family heart tree, nor is he in the main library. Florence checks Adsila’s old rooms and finds Tom’s bags deposited at the foot of the bed, but there is no sign of him in either the sitting room or the bathroom. Likewise, the third floor library is curiously empty. Frustrated and increasingly annoyed as the minutes tick by, Florence considers that he may have gone to visit Illini, intrigued as he is by the Piasa.

Florence takes the stairs two at a time, nearly sprinting down the hallway towards her room. _I’ll change and then apparate there_ Florence decides, flinging open her door with a bit too much force so that it slams against the wall. Two steps into the room she becomes aware of him – his porcelain face turning to meet hers, midnight eyes gleaming in the mid-afternoon light like shards of obsidian, dark and unfathomable but magnetic in their heat that is meant only for her.

Tom is seated upon her window seat, one elbow resting up the window sill, his legs crossed in an elegant display of grace that brings Florence to a halt, her mouth going dry at once. It is astounding to her that the magic that seems to abound between the two of them has never faded – after so many months, after so many trials, it still took only the sight of him to reduce her to nothing, to alter the very air that she breathes, the energy that circulates through her body. They stand across the room, the moment locked into her mind as one perfect beat, and then he sweeps to his feet and Florence moves across the floor and they are in each other’s arms, Tom’s lips pressing against Florence’s. His hands are in her hair, his teeth clashing against hers, and they spin, two bodies momentarily as one – sharing the same breath, the same beating heart.

“Hello, Florence,” Tom murmurs against her lips, and there is a lightness in her chest as she feels him smile against her mouth that threatens to lift her off the ground. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, kissing him again.

She has been home for twenty-four hours, but it is only now, with Tom’s arms snaked around her that she feels it – the warm comfort of certainty, that she is exactly where she is supposed to be.

Tom leads her back to the window seat a moment later, sitting with his back propped against the wall so that Florence may lean against his chest, Tom’s chin resting atop her head, his arms wrapping around her waist to rest upon her stomach.

“How was your trip?” Florence asks, one hand moving idly up and down the thigh which is pressed against her hip. She can feel him smirk into her hair, a finger playing with the hem of her skirt.

“Easy,” Tom informs her, his nail raking horizontally across her leg so that Florence shivers.

“Who picked you up from town?”

“Your mother.”

“And was she nice?”

“Of course,” Tom says, and although she cannot see him, Florence knows he is grinning. “I, unlike you, have excellent manners and a professional bearing which your mother appreciates.”

“She doesn’t know you well enough,” Florence teases, adjusting her body against him so that they are further pressed back to front. Tom’s hand tightens on her abdomen, the pads of his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her stomach.

“How was rehearsal?”

“Gods it was boring. You’re going to hate the ceremony, I go second and then you’ll be forced to watch the seven other ladies after me,” Florence said, rolling her head to the side so that she could hear his heart pounding within his chest.

“And after the ceremony?”

“There is a choreographed waltz for all the debs and their escorts, and then the bar is open and you and I are running there.”

“I have no intention of drinking to the point of inebriation, Florence,” Tom informs her, his hand slowly creeping up her thigh. Florence ignores it, her gaze focused upon the Dittany trees outside her window.

“I might, although I do expect you to defend my honor and keep me from falling should I get overserved.”

“Delightful,” Tom says, his voice a shade lower, a hint of gravel in the back of his throat.

“I’m just teasing, Tom,” Florence says, tilting her head back so that she can look at him. “I want to remember the night.”

“As do it,” Tom agrees, kissing her once, twice, a third time before pulling away to look out the window once more.

“As I understand it,” Tom continues, his position shifting slightly as the hand on Florence’s thigh leaves her skin, “there is a tradition of gift giving at debutants.”

“What book did you read that in?” Florence asks, but her ribs seem to contract as his words spark her curiosity.

“I spoke to Leonidas,” Tom admits in a rare moment of humility, and although he cannot see it, Florence smiles.

“You didn’t have to get me anything, you know,” Florence murmurs, her hand stilling upon his leg. “It is enough that you are here.”

“I know,” he whispers into her ear with easy confidence, and the hand that had reached for something returns, and with it is a large, flat, blue velvet box in the shape of a square.

“Tom,” Florence whispers, a sharp inhale of breath the only other sound she is capable of making.

“Assuming it is appropriate, I would like you to wear this tomorrow.”

Tom opens the lid for her, long, delicate fingers peeling back the cover to reveal a necklace that glistens in the rays of afternoon sunlight. Florence’s mouth falls open, incapable of even thinking as Tom runs a pale finger across the gleaming jewels.

It is a necklace designed to sit at the base of her neck, three delicate strands of pearls connecting at the center to a diamond the size of Florence thumb-nail, with smaller, more lacey diamonds erupting from the center stone like the trail of a shooting star. It is so radiant it could be considered gaudy if not for its obvious opulence. From the silver setting to the fine fastening, every inch of it is breathtaking to the point of shock, and when Florence lifts a hand to touch the central diamond that she knows will sit at the hollow of her throat, she sees that her finger is shaking.

“Tom, this is ridiculous,” she breathes, and even her voice is quaking. _How much did this cost him? Where did he get something like this?_ She couldn’t accept it – she already wore his ring which was in itself a gift she was not fit to bear, but this? This was nicer than anything she had ever received, and suddenly the thought that he had chosen the necklace specifically for her fills her eyes with tears. “I can’t accept this.”

“I will be offended if you do not,” he says in a tone that does not leave room for argument, and Florence forces herself to gulp down her tears. Taking the case from him, Florence closes it, and then turns to face him. His eyes are hard, but shining, and not for the first or the last time, she wonders what he is thinking behind one of his many masks and how she managed to make him hers. What caused men to become like him? _But then_ Florence considers _there are no men like Tom._

“It is,” she murmurs, eyes never leaving his. “Without question, the most extraordinary gift I have ever received, with perhaps the exception of this,” Florence adds, lifting her hand which bears the black onyx ring he’d given her. “Thank you, Tom.”

His responding smile, Florence thinks, is more beautiful than the diamond could ever be.

“May I put it on you now?” He asks, one finger tracing down the side of her neck. “As I understand it, I will not see you until the presentation once you leave to get dressed, and I will not have the opportunity to place it on you then.”

The idea of denying him this small thing is so preposterous that Florence just laughs and nods, turning once more to face in front of her. Tom lifts the necklace from its casing with such deft, sure movements that Florence feels more hypnotized by him than by the way the emerald cut stone casts rainbows across the wall.

The necklace is cold against her skin, the stone heavy at the base of her throat. Florence holds it in place as Tom moves her hair, his breath warm and somewhat ragged against her skin, his hands fasting the chain at the back of her neck. With a flourish of silent, wandless magic that is as miraculous as his gift, Tom summons a small handheld mirror to hover before them so that Florence can behold his present in all its magnificence.

Yet, it is not the gemstones and pearls which Florence finds herself transfixed by, her eyes only for Tom’s face which hovers over her shoulder, his eyes hungry and narrowed and lips parted in what Florence has come to recognize as wanton desire. She watches in the mirror like a spectator from another room as one of his hands runs across the necklace which sits like a choker at the crease of her shoulders and throat, his pointer finger lingering over the diamond which presses cold and hard against the pulse in her neck.

And then his hand is gone, several things occurring simultaneously so that Florence has no time to react. She hears the lock click in the door, feels one of his hands run down the side of her waist – against her _skin_ because her clothes have vanished, her bare body now meeting Tom’s gaze in the mirror.

There is one brief moment when he smiles savagely at her in the mirror, his gaze snakelike and mesmerizing, and then he has pulled her head to the side with one hand, his mouth finding her throat, the other sliding across her bare stomach to the apex of her thighs.

Heat explodes through her at his touch, and her head falls back upon his shoulder, spine arching as she is overcome by sensation. She can feel how hard Tom is pressed against her back, his clothing stiff and starchy against her skin which is suddenly too hot, her arousal overwhelming her with its sudden ferocity.

“Whatever I’d like, remember?” he whispers into her skin, and then his teeth sink into shoulder as his fingers slide inside her. Florence lets out a whimper that is surely not human – animalistic and alien and desperate, completely at his mercy. He moves with alarming dexterity, as if attempting to coax every intimate reaction out of her, and Florence complies, her eyes rolling into the back of her head, her body putty to his all to knowing hands.

When she comes minutes later she whispers his name, their eyes meeting in a singular moment of clarity in the mirror before them, Tom’s necklace glistening upon her skin like a tether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts you beautiful readers!!! Also 4500 hits - I'm freaking drooling this is incredible!!!!


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, these next couple chapters are an absolute doozy. I hope everyone is buckled in:) 
> 
> As always, thank you to the INCREDIBLE people leaving comments and kudos and bookmarks!!! You guys make my world go round.

**Chapter 36**

“And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep.”   
― Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five

Taking Tom horseback riding, Florence decides long after they have returned to the estate home, was probably a bit cruel, but she could not bring herself to regret it when she recalled how tight he’d gripped her, the way his face had nestled into the bend in her neck.

Florence is the last member of her family to join them outside on the porch for breakfast, Tom the only person beyond her who remains absent, but that – she is certain – is on purpose. He would not be showing his face until Florence herself was seated and he had an ally at the table.

Clifford smiles genially at her, his face still somewhat narrow from his time on the run from Grindelwald, but it had regained some if its color. Glancing at him, Florence remembers how they had sat as a family around his bed, listening as he explained his use of Adsila’s magic to refract the light around him and his staff, making them invisible. It had been an exhausting task requiring all of Clifford’s sizeable magical ability – and without any way of knowing if the potions factory or Clifford himself was the target, they’d fled out into the fields, sleeping outdoors and steeling food from muggle farmhouses for nearly three weeks before the exertion had caused him to collapse. It was at that point that one of the staff members sent a Patronus to the Ministry, informing them of their location and begging for medical help.

Albion and Owen raise their mugs of coffee in greeting, and even Eudora offers her a rare smile.

“Are you excited for today?” She asks, motioning to the seat beside her. Florence takes it, smiling back in return. She thinks of the necklace Tom gave her, the memory of his eyes watching her during Samhain, and feels herself blush.

“Yes, I am, honestly.”

“You better not mess up the steps for our dance,” Albion jokes, pointing a fork with a bite of scrambled eggs upon it in Florence’s direction. “Margaret is going to be watching, and I told her I was going to be the most handsome, most talented, most dashing-”

But whatever else “most” Albion had informed his fiancé he was to be is cut off by Clifford’s deep bass voice welcoming Tom to breakfast.

“Good morning, Tom,” he calls, and he gives the young man a smile. Florence looks between the two of them, noting the usual blank look upon Tom’s face as he bows slightly to her father.

“Good morning, everyone,” he addresses the table, sliding with undue grace into the chair beside her. “Good morning, Florence,” he adds under his breath, his mask slipping away so that he can smile at her. Across the table, Owen removes his glasses and polishes them on his shirt, flushing slightly at having witness the intensity of their greeting.

“What do you have in store today, Florence?” Her father asks as she pours herself a cup of coffee. Beside her Tom reaches for the pot of tea which the house elves have prepared especially for him, and Florence notices out of the corner of her eye the boyish delight he takes at having something prepared singularly for him. Something inside of her warms.

“I thought I might take Tom riding,” Florence says, and he freezes, his cup and saucer raised halfway to his mouth in a state of undeniable shock. Florence laughs, turning to face him. “I figured it’s time he learns.”

There is no humor in Tom’s gaze as he stares at her through the steam that rises from his cup, but Florence smiles at him regardless. Now is not the time to be abashed, even if she had caught sight of the telltale red sheen in his gaze which she knew meant he was ungodly angry.

“And then I have to get ready.”

“A thrilling day in the life of a deb,” Albion says, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms above his head. “I just pity the fact that you’ll have to walk beside me. You know how good I look in a tux.”

“I pity the fact that you’ll have to hand me off to Tom after I dance with you,” Florence snaps back, smiling at Albion across the table. “ _He_ looks even better, and he has a British accent.”

“So?” Albion asks, his mouth slightly ajar.

“So – all the girls will be clamoring for him considering you’re off the market. A shame really, to be twenty-five and washed up.”

“Alb, you best not test her today,” Florence’s father intercedes, but he is smiling between his two children. “It’s her day after all, and you seem to have a death wish.”

“Society is going to regret accepting this one,” Albion says, chuckling to himself, and Florence joins in, agreeing with the sentiment. She certainly wouldn’t go gentle into those expectations which had been laid out for her since birth – already she hadn’t, and that would not be changing any time soon.

There is a fracturing in her mind, and unbidden the image of Tom waiting beneath Adsila’s burial tree, his eyes burning, dressed in the clean lines of a tux surfaces before her eyes. There is a flash of gold, and she sees the ring upon his finger, and like a phantom from their possible future, Florence feels a weight upon her own left hand in real time. Yet when she at last breathes again, looking down at the hand holding her coffee, there is nothing. She flushes, embarrassed by her own imagination, and sets down her mug.

“Come on,” Florence says, turning to face Tom, her smile wide across her face. “Let’s go. The sooner we start the sooner it will be over and you can tell me how much you hated it.”

Tom rises slowly after her, clearly loathing that he was incapable of speaking his mind in front of her family, but he takes her proffered hand anyways and allows himself to be led out onto the grass before Florence turns and pulls him into the darkness of apparition. They both miss the glow in Clifford Allman’s eyes as he observes the smile on Florence’s face, the resignation in Tom’s as he acquiesces to the youngest of the Allman children, one of his hands coming to rest upon his chest in thoughtful contemplation as he watches the two children disappear.

The barn smells of hay and must and not an ungenerous amount of manure, the gentle rustling of horses within their stalls mingling with the telltale trill of a whippoorwill outside amongst the trees.

“I will not be getting on a horse, Florence,” Tom tells her coldly, releasing her hand the moment they have arrived. Florence ignores this comment, moving through the open airway to one of the final stalls on the right, grabbing the halter and lead rope from its rack beside the door. Sliding open the latch, Florence steps into the darkness, her eyes adjusting to reveal the hulking black frame of her mare, Viola, somber brown eyes level with Florence’s own.

“Good morning, honey,” Florence coos, pressing her lips to the wide flat cheek of the creature before her, inhaling deeply the smell of dust that seemed to cling to her coat. Pulling the halter over her head, Florence leads Viola down to the wash stall, dipping into the tack room to grab pads and saddles and all sorts of other accoutrements.

Tom is leaning against the wall when she exits, his arms crossed before him in an unfair display of beauty. How frustrating that he could be dashing – dark and brooding and every sin brought to life – even out of his element. Shaking herself slightly, Florence heaves the saddle and other gear onto the rack, seating herself on the step and pulling on her boots.

“It’s unjust, you know,” she begins, setting her tennis shoes beside the doorway to the tack room, glancing up at him again. Tom’s brow furrows as he runs a hand through his hair, mussing slightly the perfect curls that rest there so that Florence has to look away, suddenly too warm to look at him directly. He never fidgets, which must mean he _really_ doesn’t want to go horseback riding, but Tom has promised her the world and Florence does not have one to give, so she must share with him what she can.

“What is?” He asks, his voice thunderous in the wide hallway, kicking off the wall to approach her. He is dressed in simple slacks and a short sleeve button down shirt, his pants hanging low from his hips, the white shirt revealing only a small triangle of pale skin near his collar. On anyone else the clothing would be mundane, but upon Tom – he looks like something out of a menswear magazine.

“That you get to look like you do,” Florence says, moving to the other foot and pulling on her boot, lacing it as tight as possible while Tom comes to stand before her – far too close for the mounting heat within her to possibly cool. “And that you get to be smart and good at magic. Some people would say no one person should have all of that.”

“Those people are weak,” Tom murmurs, and Florence does not have to look up at him to know he is smirking.

Getting to her feet, Florence at last allows her gaze to meet Tom’s, the challenge she finds there the only encouragement she needs. Her fingers reach for the clasp of his pants, pulling him backwards into the tack room, the door swinging shut behind them as her fingers make quick work of his zipper. Seconds later, Florence is on her knees – Tom’s fingers through her hair, and her eyes lock upon his as she takes him. His mouth falls open in near canine desire, a guttural groan leaving his throat, and Florence has never been so strong.

When they exit the tack room some time later, Florence notices that while Tom still disproves of riding, he no longer voices his opposition, instead clambering onto Viola’s back behind Florence without a word.

.

.

.

Florence and her brothers arrive at the Spectre Dance Hall at five, their covered carriage pulled by no less than four unicorns – an extravagance each of the Debutant’s families had gone to in order to announce their daughters arrival at the hall despite the fact that the girls and their escorts would arrive before their guests.

Albion helps her down from the carriage, Florence grabbing fistfuls of white fabric so that she can extract herself from the seat. The air is cool, perfumed by the trailing vines of white flowers that lead up the steps, small glowing lights hovering around the petals that Florence realizes upon closer inspection are actually fairies no larger than her pinky finger. Albion must tug at her gloved hand to keep her moving up the stairs, transfixed as she is by their looping aerial acrobatics. Two red coated footmen pull open the oak double-doors, and Florence’s jaw falls to the floor.

The hall has been transformed, magically enhanced to nearly twice the size of the Great Hall, every inch of the space practically littered with flowers of every shape and scope, each of them white or cream or eggshell. Threads of roses weave up white columns which support the second story balcony, hanging from the railings in trails of garland, stands in every corner bearing massive structures of trumpet lilies and hydrangea and mountain laurel. The ceiling has been replaced by a field, white wisteria blooms hanging like vines from the recessed space so that the crystal chandelier appears to have sprouted from amongst the greenery. Candles float a few feet above their heads, and creamy daisy petals fall from the sky at a pleasant rate to nestle in their hair. Everywhere there are more fairies, and low sweeping music plays from nowhere. It is a winter wonderland, but perhaps more beautiful because it is living and breathing and fragrant and Florence feels her eyes water with the splendor of it all.

“This is thirty times as nice as when Margaret debuted,” Albion says, his jaw slack as he too turns to face the ceiling which resembles something akin to clouds. Florence nods, mute in the face of such loveliness, her hand – which is ensconced in a soft calf leather glove – moving absent mindedly up to press against the diamond at her neck.

“Did Tom give you that?” Owen’s clinical voice asks, and she turns to see him staring at her, a long hand adjusting the glasses upon his face. Owen looks slightly uncomfortable in his tuxedo as if it is pinching him in all the wrong places, the red of his sash and golden sun pin on his lapel highlighting just how dark his hair is. On Albion, the formal attire makes him seem larger, taking up more space than ever before. Side by side, they look like two halves of a coin.

“Yes, he did,” Florence agrees.

“I’ve got to hand it to him – he knows how to give a gift,” Alboin says, and he smiles.

“What did you give Margaret when she debuted?” Florence queries, curious what the oftentimes obtuse Albion Allman would have given his girlfriend when he attended her debut years ago. Albion’s smile grows, and he shifts to face the room once more, his eyes taking in every curve of a leaf or petal.

“I planted a garden at her house during the middle of the night – I had dad come and help me sing too it so that it took root, and when she woke up, I was there amongst it with breakfast,” he admits, and his usually proud voice has taken on a longing tone, his eyes misty with memory.

“Did she cry?” Florence asks, somewhat floored that Albion had enough of a romantic bone in his body to have developed an idea on that level.

“Nope,” he grins. “She opened her window and yelled out that I was ruining the view of the flowers – and that’s when I knew I was going to marry her.”

“She’s the only girl who can put up with your big head,” Owen confirms, and all three of them smile at each other, a brief moment shared between siblings before they set off across the floor towards the stairs and towards dinner.

The private dining room is likewise covered with flowers, white drapes replacing the usual red brocade, a long table with white linens and silver candelabras centered within the room. Each of the plates has a name card – all nine of the debs placed two seats apart so that each of their escorts can sit on the other side of them. When Florence finds that she is seated directly across from Tallulah, she knows without question that her mother has pulled a few strings to call in this favor.

“Florence, my god you look stunning,” Tallulah cries, abandoning Forsythe’s side the moment the three Allman siblings enter the room. Her gown is a delicate cream, ruched along the bust with sleeves that drape off her arms and a full tulle skirt that extends from her waist at a severe angle. Her long copper hair is pulled part of the way behind her so that carefully manicured curls can stretch down her back, the priceless diamond tiara glittering in her hair like stars brought down to earth. She is beautiful, and Florence beams.

“I think the same is applicable to you,” Florence fusses, taking Tallulah’s hands in her own and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Florence’s own dress in comparison to the pleating and tulle and sheer size of Tallulah’s is understated – a white satin with a square, strapless neckline that cinches at her waist and A-line skirt with falls to the floor around her without a crease in sight. It is clean and elegant, further enhanced by the low, sleek bun her hair has been formed into and the white gloves which extend nearly to her shoulders. The only adornment of any note is Tom’s necklace which flashes each time it catches the light, occasionally casting small rainbows of light across her skin and gown. Florence feels beautiful in a way she rarely does, as if with each step she is floating, not merely walking, every movement more graceful because of the time and effort put into her appearance.

“Are you nervous? I think I might faint,” Florence says, squeezing Tallulah’s hands in her own.

“Of course I am – what if I fall down the stairs with the entire town watching?”

“I wish they’d let us drink even just a little bit before. I think a glass of wine would do me well,” Florence admits, feeling a twist in her stomach. They had a few hours before the ceremony begin while they enjoyed their diner with fellow debs and escorts, giving the guests time to arrive, but by the time the doors opened and Florence’s name was announced to society, over a thousand people will have filed the hall, each of their eyes fixed upon her.

“Forsythe has a flask – we can have some during dinner.”

“So does Albion, glad we all came prepared.”

There is a ringing sound that chimes throughout the room and all conversation halts as everyone takes their seat at the table. Albion holds Florence’s chair out for her while she adjusts her skirts, peeling off her gloves so that she can eat without making a mess.

The meal is impeccable – six courses ranging from tuna steaks portkeyed in from Japan that morning to cakes within chocolate eggs that hatch and release tiny dragons made of coco-powder when prodded with your wand. It is the type of silly, frivolous magic which Florence likes best, not because it showcases anything, but because it can be done, and because it is beautiful. Yet despite her amazement, Florence can barely eat, all too aware of her nerves, her stomach rejecting the thought of more than a few bites. When her third course returns to the kitchens untouched, Forsythe takes sympathy upon her.

“Hand me your water glass,” he calls from across the table, leaning forward slightly so that only her brothers and Tallulah have the chance to hear him. Feeling her brow wrinkle, she hands him the goblet, and tries not to watch as he slides it beneath the table, his other hand reaching into his breast pocket. There is a wink of silver and then Florence’s cheeks redden because she realizes what’s happening. With a smile, she takes the glass back from him.

“You’re far too nervous for a party that’s being thrown in your honor,” he adds, offering her an easy grin as he stows away his flask once more. Florence nods, and her mind conjures up the angular jaw of Tom Riddle, the delicate wave of chocolate hair, a gaze that seems to burn through her. _Of course I’m nervous_ she thinks, lifting her glass to her lip, _he’s about to see me present myself to society_. Taking a sip, a lemony, sweet taste spreads across her tongue, blistering down her throat so that she nearly coughs. Albion pats her back absently, smirking at his meal. A moment later, she feels a trickle of warmth spread throughout her stomach and her shoulders soften slightly.

“You offering to share, Blount?” Albion asks, returning his hand to his thigh when it becomes clear that Florence is not going to asphyxiate. Forsythe grins.

“Not my first rodeo, Allman,” Forsythe returns, holding out his palm for Albion’s glass even though he is perfectly aware that the eldest Allman brother has a flask of his own. Soon, he has doctored each of their water goblets, all six of their cheeks slightly rosier than before, Florence’s nerves quelled slightly as she allows herself to enjoy the meal.

When they finished eating, the chairs and tables vanished with the distinct _crack_ of house elves, leaving the debs and their escorts to meander the room and talk. Florence found herself soon deep in conversation with Tallulah’s second escort – her cousin Francis – and Eleanor Adamson – the only deb who would be presented before her thanks to the alphabet.

“I know I’m going to mess up this dance,” Francis admits under his breath as they take a turn about the room. He presses a palm to his hair, smoothing it once more in what Florence has come to recognize as a nervous habit. Francis is from Charleston, but he’d Flooed in this morning to be Tallulah’s second escort in accordance with the tradition of familial presentations.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Eleanor adds with a sympathetic smile. “Most of the crowd will already be drunk. And no one’s looking at the boys really – all the old crones will be watching the girls to see if we got our steps right.”

“It’s ghastly,” Florence acknowledges, feeling her stomach twinge.

“To be certain,” Eleanor agrees. “At least you didn’t have to come to all the dinners and such throughout the season, Florence.”

“Oh, and why not?” Francis asks, turning to face her. Florence runs a hand across her stomach, noticing regretfully that her one mixed drink is wearing off. Outside the door and down the hall Florence can hear the steady rumbling of the crowd – it is nearly time for the presentation to begin.

“I’ve been studying at Hogwarts this year,” Florence explains.

“Hogwarts? Not Ilvermorny?” Francis asks, and his brow puckers in confusion, yet before Florence can answer, Eleanor rolls her eyes.

“Plenty of girls down here don’t go to Ilvermorny. I didn’t – I had a governess, and so did all four of my sisters.”

“ _Four sisters_ ,” Francis’ mouth falls open slightly, his attention at once upon Eleanor.

“If you’re nice, Francis,” Florence teases, “Eleanor will introduce you to them. You’ll have a dance partner all evening.”

Eleanor smiles at Florence, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. They have known each other since childhood – Mrs. Adamson and Eudora Allman being in the same book club – and Florence can remember childhood playdates running through the fields or playing with Eleanor’s dogs. After nearly a year apart at Hogwarts, Florence is impressed upon by how grown each of the debs looks, how ladylike.

“Florence!” A voice shouts, and the moment passes as she looks over her shoulder to find Albion barreling through the crowd. His cheeks are pleasantly red, and without question Florence knows he has been putting his flask to good use. The door to the dining room opens and with it bursts the echo of thousands of voices, and Florence feels a swing of jealousy. “It’s almost show time, thought I’d come offer you some liquid courage.”

They pause before the mantle in their circle of the room, and facing the antique, gold-framed mirror which is nearly opaque with patina, Florence takes Albion’s flask and throws her head back, downing a sip or two of Firewhiskey before passing it over to Eleanor. Beside her Albion beams.

“Ladies,” the shrill voice of their rehearsal instructor calls. “Time to line up. First escorts to the hall, second escorts downstairs. Move quickly, the lights are dimming outside.”

At once there is a flurry of activity. Owen is there, pressing his lips to her cheek, squeezing her shoulders before he is gone, joining the queue of young men that will await sisters and cousins at the base of the stairs. Albion takes Florence’s arm, wrapping it through his, and she has one more look at her face in the mirror – skin flushed, eyes wide with indeterminate fear or excitement – and then they are both sweeping out into the corridor.

Eleanor stands elbow linked with a boy Florence has not met beside the stern instructor. One by one the woman moves through the pairings, adjusting hand placements, straightening lapels and tiaras, fixating each girl with stern gazes as if to say _do not disappoint me._ The air is now silent, the lights in the corridor reduced only to a few lit sconces along the wall, but at the end of the hall light pours from under the double doors, restless noise echoing from the presentation chamber. Florence wonders where Tom is sitting – will he have weaseled his way onto the floor with her parents? Would he be in the balcony? _Will he even watch at all?_ Her chest tightens to the point of pain, and she lets out a shaky breath, unable to shake the specific shade of midnight blue that is infringing upon her vision.

Turning to glance behind her, Florence see’s Tallulah taking a similar deep breath, and she extends a gloved hand to her friend. Tallulah takes it, and for a moment their fingers interlace, and then they release and return to their positions.

“You know,” Albion says under his breath, leaning slightly to the side so she can smell the Firewhiskey still on his tongue. Reflexively her fingers tighten around his elbow as another spasm of fear rushes through her. Yes she _likes_ being the center of attention, to be noticed, but it is another thing all together to be presented before a crowd of thousands. _To be presented to Tom_. She’d asked him to be here because…because she might want to _marry_ the beautiful fool, and she was supposed to just walk out there and look at him and offer everything she is and will be and not combust? It seemed impossible.

“What,” Florence asks, her eyes fixed firmly upon the back of Eleanor Adamson’s head.

“If at any point you think you’re going to faint, just push me over. If I fall down, I’m the lousy drunk brother who ruined his sister’s night, and no one would then blame you for passing out,” he says conspiratorially before winking at her.

“You’re unbelievable,” she deadpans, but she can feel the knots in her stomach loosening, if only slightly.

“Of course, you’ll be left to the dogs once Owen takes you,” Albion continued. “I think he might be even more nervous than you.”

There is no more time for talking as a suddenly a swelling of music can be heard – Florence knows it is nothing less than a full orchestra, and closing her eyes momentarily she can picture bows moving across violins and cellos and fingers across trumpets and French horns. The crowd falls silent, and a moment later there is a magically magnified voice booming throughout the building, announcing Eleanor and her escort. The brunette kicks her dress forward as she moves into motion, framed in light as the two butlers open the door, and then they are deafened by applause and cheering and music as Eleanor is swallowed by the presentation hall, the doors closed behind her.

“Allman – you’re next,” the shrill woman’s voice hums somewhere in the back of Florence’s mind. _As if I need reminding._

“It’s showtime, Florie,” Albion whispers.

And then they are moving forward, or floating or drifting – Florence knows not. All she can comprehend is that one moment she was waiting amongst her fellow debs, and the next the doors have been pulled open and she and Albion are stepping out onto the balcony and meeting the thunderous applause of the gathered crowd.

It takes only one moment for her eyes to adjust, and then there are too many things to focus upon at once. Every inch of the floor has been covered with seats with the exception of the wide center aisle where they will dance later, people leaning over the balcony to get a closer look at her, even several old women with opera glasses with lenses that flash in the light. The floating candles have been dimmed so that the room is cast in a warm, yellow, the daisy petals falling from the ceiling like the lightest snowfall.

“… _daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Clifford Alexander Allman…_ ” the announcer’s voice resonates around them, and without thinking she feels her face break into an enormous smile, turning and laughing up at Albion because why did she ever feel nervous? She is amongst _her_ people upon _her_ land representing _her_ family, and she feels beautiful.

Albion’s hand slides down her arm to take her hand as Florence steps forward to the edge of the balcony, sinking low into a practiced curtsy that almost obscures her behind the railing before she rises once more. Around her the music is still swelling, lifting her heart into her throat until she feels like she cannot breathe.

It is as she stands that she spots him, because of course in a crowd of over a thousand people, Tom Riddle would find a way to be in her direct line of sight. If she had felt faint before, it is nothing – _nothing_ to the effects of seeing him across the hall, pale fingers wrapping around the balcony railing which is level with her, ebony hair littered with daisy petals, black eyes like small windows of night sky. He leans forward, and even with an ocean of people between them, she can see the tension in every line of his body, as if he would fly across the space to her if he could, starving for Florence and Florence alone.

She swallows, and then smiles a smile only for him, hand convulsing around Albion’s because at last she has a name for that inevitable feeling that had overwhelmed her at Samhain, that emotion that had driven her towards him at every turn, that she had fought because of the sheer power of it over her. How foolish she had been not to comprehend it until now, how wonderful to be overcome by the emotion when he looked like Hades and she felt like Persephone waiting for to be swept away to Tartarus, or perhaps any of the other foolish Greek tales she had been read as a child that suddenly felt insufficient, even in their grand scope.

Or perhaps, she thinks, her eyes tracing every line of his face as if it is the last time she might see it, she is just Florence, and he is just Tom, and maybe that is enough.

“ _Florence Allman_ ,” the announcer calls again, and the crowd erupts once more into applause. Tom smirks, refusing to join in the clapping, a savage expression even at such a distance, and her stomach drops as she watches his mouth move, forming one word she can never unhear. She has no question what he says, even though she cannot hear him.

_Mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't forget to let me know what you think!! I'll be back in a few days with chapter 37!! (I can't believe we're already on chapter 37, I feel like I was just writing chapter 20 the other day)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed:)


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had the following scene in my head since I began this story months ago. To say that I am excited to finally share it with you is the understatement of the century. I hope that it lives up to your expectations, I am so nervous to post this there are no words. Thank you to everyone who has been following and commenting and kudosing religiously to reach this point - there is still more to come, but WOW am I excited to get this chapter out!! happy reading Xx

**Chapter 37**

  
"I love you and I always will and I am sorry. What a useless word."

\- Ernest Hemingway, The Garden of Eden

Tom had been standing upon the balcony for what felt like millennia by the time the first debutant is announced to the assembled crowd, watching with uninterrupted boredom as she curtseyed and then moved down the stairs where a second young man escorted her beneath a canopy of golden sparks that no less than twenty red-coated butlers were emitting from their wands. It was all hyper-formal and severely self-indulgent, but he could feel too the magic in the room, the celebration of tradition that strengthened this place. He wonders if the people of Spectre remember that tonight is also Beltane, the celebration of rebirth – the first of summer. He wonders if any of them can still recall the connection of offering up virginal girls to the young, expectant men of their society, or if it is truly nothing more than a celebration of family these days. _Fools_ he wants to shout, because with so many witches and wizards gathered, a proper celebration could result in quite powerful magic. Tom manages to keep his mouth closed, but he laments the opportunity lost.

Idly he had wondered how many young men in the assembled crowd were familiar with Florence. To his utmost fury, he’d noticed several others in the cross-body, blue sash he himself wore that indicated their presence as a possible suiter. Did they know Florence? Would they ask her to dance? Would it ruin her evening if he cursed one of them on the dance floor? Tom had seen red momentarily when one of the boys beside him read Florence’s name from the program – a perfectly innocent action except that he had not read Tom’s name in tandem with hers, as if reading only part of a whole, omitting half of Florence’s reality.

Eleanor Adamson finishes her presentation with another curtsey before she is handed a bouquet of long stemmed flowers which she cradles like a child and is escorted out under the balcony. Tom has forgotten her before she is out of his sight, the pounding in his head blocking out the clapping around him.

As silence falls once more, there is a beat of air while the crowd collects itself, and Tom reaches for the balcony, suddenly unsteady in his own anticipation. He knows what is next without reading the bulletin because he can feel the magic that stirs between the two of them when they are close, the frantic pulsing energy that passes between their beings as if magic itself linked them together. His knuckles whiten in tension.

When the doors open, there is a momentary inhale of breath as if the entire crowd has been waiting to see Florence Allman their entire life, and then she is there, floating in white, her face flushed and perfect and _beautiful_. Tom does not even have enough brain power to bemoan his pathetic, human response to the sight of her – he knows only that she is the embodiment of everything he swore he would never need, and yet he craves her more than the air he breathes. _Beautiful_ he thinks again, and he feels his gut tighten as his body prevents himself from tipping forward and launching himself through time and space to her.

He watches her neck bend as she sinks into a curtsey, low and graceful and _fuck_ his pants are too tight and his throat is too dry and it’s all made infinitely worse when she rises and her eyes find his – brown and soothing and like wells of honey sweeter than any elixir he has known.

When she smiles at him – _for him_ – his whole world rotates.

It takes him several deep breaths to realize that she has begun to move down the stairs, one gloved hand in the outstretched grasp of Albion who walks beside her, the other gently clasping the curved bannister. Her hair is tight and sleek, leaving Tom longing for the purple electricity that hums through it when she is unhinged, her dress elegant and clean and exactly what he pictures Florence in when his imagination runs away from him. Upon her neck he can see his necklace, and with a rush of satisfaction he notes it is the only adornment upon her, as if he is the only person fit to mark her skin. _I am_ he agrees, but he doesn’t dwell on the thought.

The train of her dress drags down the stairs, the tail of her comet – blinding and impactful and how could he have ever resisted her? Why did he ever try? _Florence Allman_. Infuriating, childish, sickeningly hope-ridden Florence Allman who found his face amongst thousands and laughs as she descends the stairs, who arrays herself before him in white – sacrificial and pure and he wants to burn the world until there is nothing left but her, to reshape beauty itself in her image.

At the base of the stairs Albion passes Florence’s hand to Owen’s and then with a bow he disappears. The middle Allman child steers Florence down the center aisle as pair by pair the red-coated butlers lift their wands and emit golden sparks over their heads like the are walking under crisscrossing, flaming swords. They reach the end of the walkway and Florence lets go of Owen, sinking low into another curtsey that has her nearly resting upon the floor, an ice sculpture melting demurely. Tom smirks as he watches because he is familiar with the set of her shoulders – had her hair been down, she would have thrown it over her shoulder in a subconscious showing of pride.

Someone steps forward to hand Florence her bouquet of white lilies, and then for the briefest moment her eyes flicker upwards to his. _Where they belong_. She smiles at him once more, the pulsing muscle within Tom’s ribs reduced to nothing more than ash, and then she is gone, hustled from the presentation room to another round of thunderous applause.

Tom does not wait to see the remaining girls presented, shouldering his way past the assembled onlookers and earning himself a few disdainful looks. He could care less about any of them, all he wants is to be poised to sweep in and dance with Florence once the obligatory first waltz is finished. _She has spent far too much time out of my reach today_ Tom thinks as he glides towards the stairs. The bulge in his trousers agrees.

Tom’s magic feels strangely buoyant as he leans against the back wall watching over the heads of the seated crowd. Perhaps he will explode, rupturing the entire room around him with magic stronger than anything the simple-minded people of Spectre could imagine. He wants too – he feels like screws within his mind have become unhinged – the sight of Florence Allman enough to shatter something inside of him to the point of nausea inducing terror. Tom wonders if it is because tonight is Beltane and this ceremony is welcoming young women into adulthood at the beginning of summer in a sacrifice of magic, or if it is simply because Florence Allman smiled at him amongst thousands and he is truly weaker than he considered. He goes with the first option because he finds the second displeasing no matter how much he may want to kiss her.

The rest of the girls presented are as dull as the dust beneath his feet. Tom must keep himself steady when he notes the hulking figure of Forsythe Blount escorting his sister down the floor, his hand itching for his wand as his mind considers every curse he has ever learned. And yet, at least the copper-haired farmer boy was a devil he knew. He was stronger than Forsythe Blount, and had Florence herself not said that she had shared more with Tom in a few months than she had with Forsythe over her entire lifetime? It was the hundreds of other young men gathered around the room sizing up Florence who was radiant amongst the other eight unremarkable women than infuriated him. _The sooner she is in my arms the better_.

At last the final girl has been presented and all of the debs are once more finding their way onto the dance floor. The music switches, and for one baited moment there is silence across the hall, and then the escorts are bowing to their partners and the waltz has begun, each girl between her two presenters as they parade down the aisle. Albion and Florence seem to be having a conversation as they move, and something inside of Tom melts as he observes her smile, incapable of ripping his eyes away from the pink of her cheeks, the broad grin which bisects her face. When Owen switches places with his brother, Tom notices the lines of Florence’s expression soften, as if she is encouraging him. How can he notice such things about her? Tom is going to take control of wizarding Britain, and yet here he is, at the back of the dance hall practically fiending to have his hands pressed against Florence’s body.

Finally the song ends and the presentation hall morphs into action – chairs vanish, house elves appear with trays of champagne, and a stage materializes beneath the two imperial staircases. Tom glides forward, taking a flute of bubbling liquid without thanks as he moves, sliding between gossiping old hags and tipsy young men.

“ _…Caroline looks very nice tonight…”_ once boy says, snickering under his breath. Tom pays the dunce no mind, until that is, he continues. “ _But Allman didn’t look bad either. I’d ask her to dance if she’d say yes_.”

Tom bites back his retort, forcing his way further through the crowd. He wants to whip out his wand and blast a path through these irrelevant socialites until he spots her, but he contains himself, downing the champagne without thinking and setting the empty class on a passing tray. He’s hardly made it five yards with so many people up and moving towards the bar or the restroom or the dance floor, and by the time he spots Florence, he sees that Clifford Allman has beat him to the chase. Gnashing his teeth, he spots a flower ensconced pillar and goes to stand by it, watching their every move as the new band swings into an upbeat tune that Tom cannot name.

“ _I think I might shoot for Tallulah, although everyone knows she’s keeping her eye out for Dallas Parker,_ ” a voice somewhere to the right of Tom says, and Tom turns to see three young men around his age – each in blue sashes like his own – eyeing the spinning young ladies. They all had sun worn faces and gentle, sweeping hair as if they were carbon copies of one another. _Americans._

“ _I think I need a drink – you have your flask on you Ephraim?”_

_“Yeah, hang on a second.”_

Tom scoots closer, curious to listen to their idle musings. He will have to wait until the song is over before sweeping in to dance with Florence, he may as well entertain himself until that time.

“Excuse me,” Tom steps up politely. At once the three boys turn to face him, their brows raised at what he assumes is his accent. “I couldn’t help but overhear you. Some old bat took my flask during the ceremony, would you mind if I took a swig of yours?”

The boy holding the flask – Ephraim – nods and smiles, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he passes the silver container to Tom. The liquid burns down his throat, but it is warm in his stomach and distracts him from the fact that Florence is so close looking like she does and yet not in his arms.

“Where are you from?” One of the young men asks, eyeing Tom’s sash.

“London.”

“I’ll be damned, what are you doing here?” another adds, his gaze sweeping up and down Tom’s figure. Tom has to hide his smirk.

“I’m here by invitation of Florence Allman. She and I have been attending school together at Hogwarts for the past year.”

“Thought I’d heard something about that, and then there was all that trouble with her father, but he seems well enough now,” Ephraim adds, all four sets of eyes seeking out Florence’s white clad figure in the sea of black attired men and women. Clifford Allman did look better, his pale face somewhat colored as he and Florence laughed at something Tom could not hear.

“Florence isn’t looking half bad either,” one boy comments, reaching for the flask and taking a sip.

“Are you two close at Hogwarts?” Ephraim asks Tom.

“As close as two people can be after less than a year’s acquaintance,” Tom replies vaguely. _This morning she got on her knees before me and moaned as she did it_ he does not say, smirking at the back of Florence’s head as he recalls. It feels like centuries ago that she had forced him onto the back of her horse and coerced Tom into riding around the Dittany fields for a few hours.

“You know boys, I think I _am_ going to ask Allman to dance,” Ephraim says, stowing his flask once more into his breast pocket.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

Tom’s voice is low, his gaze still fixed upon the curve of Florence’s waist as he speaks, but he knows his words have carried when the young men beside him fall silent. How easy it was to play with the emotions of weak-minded, simple humans.

“What?”

“I said,” Tom repeats, a line of thunder slipping into his tone. “I wouldn’t ask Florence to dance.”

“Why on earth not?” Ephraim asks, perhaps too intoxicated to hear the threat in Tom’s voice. Tom turns to smirk at him, but his vision is flickering red in the corners and his hand once more itches for the feel of his wand.

“Because if you so much as speak to Florence Allman,” Tom hisses leaning forward so that the other man must look up at him. “I will find you and use my wand to break every bone in your body, one by one until you comprehend that she is mine.”

There is silence amongst the boys as if they are processing his words. Tom has found that all pure-blooded, high-society men were the same. They put on a bold front, but they were so accustomed to receiving what they wanted that when a legitimate challenge arose, it left them floundering and unsure.

“Thank you for the drink,” he murmurs, clasping his hands behind his back and turning to set off towards the dance floor as the music swelled and ended, leaving the pale faced boys to cypher through his threats.

The distance between the edge of the hall and center of the dance floor was quite sizeable, and yet in the blink of an eye Tom feels that he has arrived. Florence sets a recently emptied champagne flute upon a hovering tray, turning as she does so only for her eyes to meet his. There is a roaring in his ears that has nothing to do with the crowded hall, a thundering in his chest because of course this moment was inevitable. She was inevitable, and she was _his_. Her cheeks turn pink, corners of her mouth upturning in a knowing smile while Tom bows low and smooth, his eyes never leaving hers. _At last_ he thinks with a sigh.

“Florence,” he murmurs, reaching for her hand which she gives him without hesitation. The leather glove is smooth beneath his touch, yet it is not the texture he longs for, and without thinking he pulls at each finger, tugging the garment from her arm until at last her skin is pressed against his. Somewhere before time the gods must have molder her palm to fit in his. Tom’s lips press to her knuckles and he smiles into it when he hears the slight gasp that escapes her lips, a gut reaction to the magic that seems to electrify his entire system when he finds her skin pressed against his own.

“The other hand,” Tom calls, releasing the first to hold out his palm. He repeats the process of removing the glove and then vanishes them back to the Allman estate, determined to have as much skin to skin contact as possible while still remaining dressed.

“Hello, Tom,” Florence says after he is finished, her umber gaze fixed upon his face as if he is everything she has ever known. He smiles, incapable of feeling foolish in the presence of such adoration.

“Shall we?”

He inclines his head toward the dance floor, and her responding grin is the only answer he needs. Florence’s hand finds his shoulder as Tom’s palm presses to the flat of her back, drawing her body flush against his where he can smell the perfume on her skin, his cheek pressed to her temple. She is warm and soft and delicate, and there is a stretching within his gut as he hears the first few stirrings of music. The tension that has plagued him since she left his sight to get ready that afternoon dissipates slowly, the steady rising and falling of her chest against his a metronome he steadies himself by.

“I love this song,” Florence whispers, and he feels the point of her chin press against his sternum as she looks up at him. Tom offers her his gaze, sinking into the smile he finds there.

“Glenn Miller,” Tom agrees, and for the briefest moment it was worth being raised in a filthy muggle orphanage just to see the delight that spreads across her face.

“How did you know?”

“I know many things, Florence.”

“Of course,” she teases, and Tom quirks an eye at her. “What else do you know?”

The music has begun to swirl across the hall, and without thinking they are moving, two parts of one entity somehow separate from the spectacle and people around them. Tom does not know if he fully appreciated the wonder of dancing with Florence at Samhain considering he’d been reeling over the fact that she had touched him, but now pressed against her, his diamond hovering over the hollow in her throat, Tom cannot think of any other activity in which he would rather participate. _Normal_ people dance, but whatever this is with Florence, it is divine. He would not expect others to understand.

“I know that you are well on your way to being drunk,” he whispers, bending to press his lips to the curve of her cheekbone which flames beneath his lips. Magic swirls across his skin at the touch, and he must pull away before he does something he will regret in front of all of these people.

“What else?”

“I know that there is not a young man here who does not currently wish to be in my place,” he says, and the thought sends a ripple of anger through him. He presses his palm against Florence’s back again so that any remaining air between their bodies evaporates as they spin.

“Is that all you know?” She asks, and her voice is slightly breathless. He likes it – when she sounds like that, the final gasps of desperation.

“What more could you possible want?” Tom asks as the music swells around them, their bodies swirling together in one rhythm.

“ _Everything_.”

Tom’s gut clenches at the word, and his fingers dig into her waist.

“I know that you are beautiful,” he says at last, his sanity too far gone with his body pressed as he is against Florence’s to regret sharing such feeble, insufficient words. Beautiful was not half of it, but it would have to suffice. There would _never_ be words for the marks Florence Allman had left on his soul –what was left.

They spin in silence, and Tom closes his eyes, his mind pleasantly calm now that Florence is once more in his grasp. They spin, and Tom allows his thoughts to craft an image so faultless it makes something within him ache. _Florence, rushing through a crowd of his followers, her face perfect and bronzed in its immortal youth, leaping into his arms to congratulate him for toppling the ministry or perhaps winning a battle or for just existing – the details don’t matter- whispering into his ear that he is the most miraculous sorcerer to have ever lived. The Florence of his future looks at him with the fiery, unsolicited adoration he has come to crave because of course she has come to see the wisdom of his ways – that muggles and muggle-borns are lesser citizens, that power for the sake of power must be end goal, that she is his, irrevocably and forever._ It is a triumphant moment, a captivating one, and more than anything Tom wants for it to be true. It _will_ be true because he wills it so. The arm around Florence tightens, his jaw pressing into her skin.

The song ends and Tom opens his eyes to find Florence staring up at him, her brow puckered slightly.

“Where were you?” She whispers, her cheek resting upon his chest. Absentmindedly he wonders if she can hear the thundering in his heart.

“With you,” he informs her, and she smiles so wide that Tom cannot help but lean in and kiss her, despite the crowd and the setting and every other social rule he is certain they are breaking. Florence does not need to know that he was with the Florence of his future, of _their_ future. She will understand soon enough.

“Can I have this next dance,” she whispers against his lips, and Tom nods, kissing her once more before retaking his stance with Florence at the center of his world.

They glide through the next dance, and then the following, and then the one after that without ever pulling a part. Tom listens as Florence recounts her meal, watching as her face glows with rapture as she describes the frivolous magic of her dinner, her nerves before she had been announced. Twice Florence suggests going to get drinks, but terrified as he is to release her, Tom instead wandlessly summons a flute of champagne for her so that he can continue to hold her close. He refuses to admit to himself the smug pride that preens through him every time Florence comments upon his nonverbal magic, her words glowing with praise for him and for his abilities.

After their fifth dance, Florence calls for a halt, her chest heaving slightly as the upbeat swing ends and Tom presses both of her hands to his lips, incapable of resisting the temptation to mark her as his over and over and over again.

“I wish we could dance all night –” she begins, and Tom smirks.

“We can,” he interrupts.

“ _But_ ,” Florence continues over him, smiling at his desperation for her. “I have to go check in with my family, and Tallulah probably needs a pep talk so she can ask Dallas Parker for a dance,” she says with a grin. “And I have _got_ to take my shoes off. My ankles are killing me.”

“Find me when you are finished,” Tom commands, pressing his lips to hers once more, perhaps rougher than strictly necessary, but with her impending release he needs to feel her against him one last time. She nods and then she is gone, Tom forced to watch as she makes her way through the crowd, scanning for the faces of those closest to her. When Florence has disappeared from view, Tom turns to see the three boys from earlier staring quite blankly at him, Ephraim’s eyes wider than galleons. He smirks, and then makes his way out of the dance hall towards the bar.

Tom collects a tumbler of Firewhiskey merely for the sake of having something to hold and then moves outside onto the covered terrace. The air is cool, and Tom takes a deep breath, clearing his head slightly of the intoxicating feeling that overcomes his senses whenever he holds Florence close. Even out here the white flowers have invaded every surface, covering the stone railing, resting in towering arrangements along window sills.

“Tom,” a steady voice calls out not even a moment, and turning over his left shoulder, he sees the weathered, brown face of Clifford Allman approaching him. He looks remarkably healthier for someone who had nearly exhausted his magical core on the run only a few weeks ago, but then again, he did work with magical healing plants. He is sure there are undocumented side effects.

“Mr. Allman,” Tom replies, nodding his head in the gentleman’s direction.

“You’ve got the right idea grabbing a breather on the porch,” he says, raising his own glass to Tom and taking a small sip. Tom joins him. “Not one for big crowds myself, but Eudora loves them.”

“Yes sir.”

“Enjoying yourself?” Clifford asks, and Tom feels his eyes narrow as he tries to discern the patriarch’s tone.

“I do not tend to enjoy tradition for traditions sake,” Tom begins carefully, “but I have found this evening agreeable nonetheless.”

“You know,” Clifford continues after another sip from his drink. His voice is slower now, as if he is weighing every word. “I think every father waits for the day a young man looks at their daughter the way you look at my Florence.”

Tom feels his body go rigid, a mask of perfect indifference sliding onto his face with practiced ease. He can feel that there is so much more the man beside him wishes to say, and Tom must bite his tongue so stop himself from countering Clifford Allman’s words: my Florence. _She is mine you fool._

“Eudora is ready for you to propose now, and Owen certainly seems to like you if for nothing more than intellectual conversations,” Clifford explains like he is reading off a list. “Even Albion has come around. I think that diamond necklace really tipped the scales in your favor.”

“And you, sir?” Tom asks, and he does not try and keep the slice of coldness from his voice. Clifford nods at his drink, lost deep in thought. Tom sticks his hand into his pocket in order to stop himself from reaching for his wand.

“I believe,” he says after a moment. “That I am in possession of more facts than the rest of my family, perhaps even more so than Florence.”

There is ice forming around Tom’s torso, his brain pounding with a thousand questions he wants to ask this man, but he must remember his image, his temper. He has worked too long and too hard to risk it all now.

“Sir?”

“I know what that ring you have given to my daughter is,” Clifford says without missing a beat. “I must confess I was horrified to see it upon her finger when she came to see me in the hospital.”

Tom’s mind moves into overdrive as he considers his next words. _How could he know? It is impossible – not even Dumbledore himself has recognized what is ring truly is._

“I sorry, Mr. Allman,” Tom says in the pristine voice he uses for Slughorn when he is trying to wheedle information out of the sorry potions professor. “I don’t think I follow.”

“Of course not,” Clifford smiles at Tom. “You wouldn’t want to incriminate yourself now would you? But all the same, I know what it is, and I know that it is not the only one.”

“Could you elaborate, sir? I’m having trouble following what you are saying.”

Tom’s heart is like a caged animal clawing at his chest, each breath a pain. Would he have to kill Florence’s father? What would happen if he told? There was too much at stake, too many plans he had laid for one simple man to disturb his goals.

“Adsila, my grandmother – I am certain Florence has told you of her,” Clifford peers at Tom, who nods curtly in affirmation. “She taught Florence so much about native magic. Of all of my children it came most naturally to her – I have always been immensely proud of her for it – but Adsila did not teach Florence everything. She passed on to join the spirits of her people before Florence could learn further.”

“Florence is remarkable,” Tom hears himself saying before he can even think about what he has uttered, his natural reaction to defend her even to the man that had raised Florence. Clifford’s smile widens, and Tom feels his unease grow.

“Of course she is,” Clifford confirms with easy confidence. “It does not mean she knows everything, just as you do not know everything. She does not, forgive me, truly understand the relationship between inner magic and the soul, just as I believe you do not.”

They have strayed into dangerous territory now, and Tom feels his breath catch in his throat, his vision beginning to flicker in his rage.

“When we first shook hands and you were probing my magic to get a sense of how strong I was – yes my dear boy, I felt your invasion of my person – I had a look inside you too. I have seen dark magic, but nothing like what you have done to yourself. Ripping your soul in half _twice_ , unbalancing your core magic to make yourself more powerful…” his voice trails off and he takes another sip of Firewhiskey, draining his glass. “I confess upon first realization, I was simultaneously amazed by your constitution – that you could have undergone something so debilitating and be as strong as you are currently is astounding – and horrified by your actions.”

“What proof do you have for these slanderous accusations?” Tom demands, and his voice is like thunder and gravel and he does not feign kindness now. _Clifford Allman knows too much._

“None, of course,” he says cheerfully, as if they were discussing the weather. “Using Native magic to parse out someone’s soul certainly won’t stand up in the court of law, and I have no real interest in seeing you go to jail.”

“Then what is the purpose of these indictments?” Tom demands, confused why Clifford was playing his cards if he had no intention to use them.

“Because I love my daughter,” he explains, and his voice is tired. “And because she is clearly smitten with you.”

“I have no intention of giving Florence up,” Tom grounds out, his hand tightening around his tumbler until the glass threatens to shatter in his grasp. Clifford nods.

“No, of course you don’t. And whatever you may think of me, I have no desire to break my daughter’s heart.”

“What is your intent?”

“Only to share the following thoughts with you,” he begins, and his smile fades as he observes Tom. “Any decisions regarding yourself and your soul you made before my daughter was a part of your life. While I find them repulsive to the extreme and can think of no excusable reason to create dark magical objects as you have, I will not hold past decisions against you in terms of eligibility for my daughter’s hand.”

Tom opens his mouth to speak, but Clifford presses on.

“With that being said, while I do not consider my daughter a fool, her feelings for you may obstruct her from reasonable decision making. Should you refrain from any more of these heinous acts, when the time comes for you to ask for Florence’s hand in marriage, I will gladly give you my blessing should yourself and Florence still be intimately involved – and of course baring my daughter’s wishes.” He pauses, taking a deep breath, and turns to look Tom full in the eye. Never before has Tom seen the very same eyes of Florence Allman with such coldness, and ice drips down his spine. 

“However, should you take it upon yourself to rip your soul again and through that commit murder, or commit any other atrocity I deem unsuitable, you will never have my blessing. You will never marry her, and I will use all of my considerable power and affluence to keep the two of you apart.”

Everything inside of Tom seems to be spinning, his chest is heaving, the world is erupting beneath his feet. _You will never marry her. Keep the two of you apart._ The words have entered his consciousness, and yet he cannot comprehend them. Is Clifford Allman truly so foolish that he does not realize the astounding magic Tom has created – he is _immortal_. Why should that be a barrier between himself and Florence? So what that Myrtle Warren and his disgusting family had been forced to die for the sake of his immortality – they were inconsequential, their lives were better served given to his. Tom’s vision is crimson.

“I am only asking that you make the right choice – for Florence,” Clifford sighs, and he sounds weak as he had upon his hospital bed at St. Mungo’s. Tom feels nauseous. “Please don’t make me break my daughter’s heart.”

“You imply that I would wish to hurt her?” Tom demands, his thoughts moving as if through sludge, slow and amorphous and just out of reach. “I would burn the world for her.”

“I know,” Clifford agrees. “I saw it in your face when you came to the hospital, and I see it in your eyes now. Your infatuation with her is the _only_ reason I was willing to allow you to attend this event, and it is the only reason I am willing to overlook your past mistakes for the sake of Florence’s happiness.”

_Infatuation?_ Tom was prepared to make Florence a sorceress of indescribable power, to seat her beside him as he ruled over magical populations. What could small-minded Clifford Allman know of what Tom felt for his daughter?

Tom takes a sip of his drink, unwilling to say anything that might incriminate himself further.

“I must go find Florence,” he says after a moment, his thoughts still unraveling as he tries to process Clifford Allman’s blackmail. _He knows too much._

“Yes, yes,” he agrees, nodding as he peers out into the night. Tom turns to go, but Clifford’s final words reach him even as he re-enters the building.

“Think on what I have said Tom. Should you fall further into darkness, there will be no second chance.”

It is too crowded inside, Tom jostling amongst the bodies of the party goers who’s minds are empty with alcohol and silly nothingness – the ignorance of normalcy. _Florence_ he thinks, because she is the only thing stopping him from burning the structure to the ground. He wants them all gone, all of these disgusting excuses for witches and wizards who are not fit to shine his shoes, to look upon the face of Florence Allman looking like she had ascended from Olympus. Around him his magic crackles in the air, warming the space about him until his tuxedo is uncomfortably hot.

It is as he rounds a corner that he spots her, giggling hand in hand with Tallulah, their heads pressed together as they whisper and move through the crowd. At once the sight of her eases his corrosive thoughts, noting that stray tendrils of caramel hair have escaped the sleek bun at the base of her head, falling to frame her face like vagrant threads of gold. He has the strange urge to run his thumbs across the flush of her cheeks, her lower lip, to feel the give of her skin beneath his.

“Florence,” he croaks, his voice suddenly dry in his near hysteria, and somehow over the rumble of hundreds of voices, she hears him. _Mine, mine, mine…_

Meeting Florence’s gaze is like coming home, and when she smiles Tom feels like he’s been poisoned or cursed or perhaps both. Whispering something to Tallulah, he watches as she pushes her way towards him, her hands outstretched for his. He gives them to her, relishing in the feel of palms against his, the way their touch seems to erase everything around them.

“Tallulah and I are going to the bathroom,” she says, and she laughs as if this is the funniest thing anyone has ever said. Tom lifts a hand to the side of her neck, running the back of his finger along her throat. _She’s drunk_ he realizes.

“Should I wait outside the door?”

“No,” she laughs again, and the sound is acute and beautiful and Tom wants to kiss her until she begs him to take her home. “Meet me on the dance floor?”

“Alright,” he agrees, and he cannot stop himself from leaning forward to press his lips fleetingly against her. She smiles against his mouth and it is ecstasy. Too soon Florence pulls away and begins to make her way back to Tallulah, but upon second thought, she turns around runs back to him, her eyes wide and dare he say it _scared_.

“Tom,” she says, reaching for him, her hands coming to cup either side of his face so that he believes her fingerprints might be left upon his skin.

“Yes, Florence?”

How can she still say his name like it is every wonderful thing brought to life even while intoxicated? It is magic he does not understand, enchantment that is beyond his control and he hates that he needs it and craves it and that he would do anything to keep it.

“I love you,” she whispers, and everything within him shudders to a halt. Florence’s hands tremble around his face, and then she laughs again, and Tom never thought the sound could be more beautiful that it already was, but this time it is.

“ _Gods_ I feel so stupid saying it, but I do,” she continues, and he can count the stars in her eyes, see every tooth in her mouth as she smiles at him. “I do love you.”

He does not think he has ever felt terror as great as he does in that moment.

What a stupid word. Four letters as meaningless as any other, that could mean anything because it means nothing. How many times had he been force fed stories of knights in shining armor and true love’s kiss and the other lies unhappy parents told foolish, reckless children. Tom had always known these tales for the lies that they were, and yet… _and yet_ … his body is trembling within her grasp, his every nerve is on fire because no one had ever said it to _him_. Said it as if they were giving him the fucking sun and stars and deepest mysteries of the ocean, and he doesn’t understand it and Tom hates what he does not understand, but he cannot hate Florence and it is all agony.

“ _Florence_ ,” is the only thing he can say in return.

“I’ll come find you on the dance floor,” she assures him, and pulling his face down to hers for another kiss, she turns and runs back to Tallulah, leaving Tom to watch her go and sort through the chaos in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I love you and I always will and I am sorry. What a useless word." - Ernest Hemingway
> 
> That quote has been in my brain associated with Tom since this story began. It is one of my favorites, and I think it grasps so well in such simple terms how one word seems wildly inefficient at capturing the meaning of love, or even what love is. Especially when you are Tom and you do not comprehend love, possibly cannot feel it as a normal person does...
> 
> I will be taking a short break. Not sure how long, maybe a week or so, but I just have a lot going on and I need to get my life back on track. Again, I was so happy to finally be able to share this with you, especially Tom and Clifford's confrontation. Please let me know your feedback and everyone stay safe!!


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly you guys, I'm pretty speechless. Over 30 bookmarks? Over 200 kudos? Comments that actually make me tear up? I genuinely remember thinking when I started this that if I got 3,000 hits I would be over the f*ckin moon, and now I'm over 5,000 because you people are WONDERFUL and I'm so unworthy and honestly just flummoxed. Thank you, thank you, thank you to the ends of the earth and back. Your support has meant everything to me so far and I feel so lucky to have people willing to share their thoughts and time with my story. There will never be enough words!!
> 
> Before you dive into this newest chapter, wanted to encourage each of you to head over to Wattpad to read Tournesol15's Tom Riddle X OFC fic. It's absolutely lovely, I've been devouring it, and she's been an incredible supporter of my work. It is titled "I Saw You" and here is the link: https://my.w.tt/OKZ8e1K4U9 . Absolutely worth your time I cannot recommend enough!
> 
> Seriously, thank you again, I hope everyone continues to enjoy after last chapters big turn of events!!!

**Chapter 38**

“…There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover’s whisper, irresistible—magic to make the sanest man go mad.”   
― Homer, The Iliad

Florence checks her appearance once last time in the mirror, aware that her thoughts are somewhat fuzzier than usual under the influence of perhaps one-too-many glasses of champagne, yet she cannot shake the look on Tom’s face, the blank expression of complete shock which morphed into hunger before her very eyes.

_I love you._

_Florence_.

Christ, where had she found the confidence to say such a thing to him? And yet, it was as true as anything else she had told Tom. She did love him, she probably had since he had told her she was beautiful so many moons ago at Samhain.

“Florence, hurry up,” Tallulah calls, sticking her head inside the ladies room. “I just saw Dallas headed towards the dance floor.”

Wiping one last time at her eyeshadow, Florence takes Tallulah’s hand and follows her out the door, allowing herself to be tugged once more in the melee of guests and family and many other variations of drunk dancers. Florence scans the crowd, searching for the distinct chocolate curls, the knifelike jaw that can only be Tom Riddle, but she comes up short.

“Oh, there’s Forsythe, and he’s with Dallas!” Tallulah squeals, and Florence finds herself being dragged along behind her friend before she can register what has happened. As much as she wants to support Tallulah in finagling a dance out of the man of her infatuation, she really wants to find Tom.

 _I love you_ she had told him, and he had looked at her like the sun set and rose behind her eyes. She wanted to see it again and again and again, she wanted to feel that powerful for the rest of her life. _Florence,_ he had said in response, and only Tom could say her name like a song, could make those two syllables into a conversation.

Before Florence has time to wish Tallulah luck, she finds herself beside Forsythe as they both watch with accompanying amused smiles as Tallulah practically drags a grinning Dallas Parker out onto the dance floor, abandoning the two of them without question.

“She knows what she wants, I’ll give her that,” Florence says, laughing slightly as she snags a glass of champagne from a passing house elf.

“Always has. Poor Dallas better be prepared to dance with her for the rest of the night.”

“Speaking of dancing,” Florence says, her eyes still scanning the hall for Tom, “Has Mary Helen found you? I think I saw her earlier by the bar.”

“That,” Forsythe mutters, “is not funny.”

“You’re right, it’s hilarious.”

Their eyes meet, and a moment later they have both tipped their heads back in laughter. Florence had seen Mary Helen – she’d been speaking to a very disgruntled looking cousin Francis – and Florence had dipped away before she could be dragged into reliving her dance with Forsythe at the Seventh year Ilvermorny ball for the hundredth time.

“Speaking of dancing,” Forsythe repeats her words, and she notes the line of humor in his voice has faded. “Shall we give it a go?” Florence glances up at him, his sage gaze earnest and endearing and suddenly she wishes she hadn’t looked at him at all because she cannot see any way to reject him without being cruel.

“I’ve got a drink,” she says, holding up her champagne. To Florence’s absolute shock, he takes the flute from her grasp and tips it back into his mouth, the golden liquid disappearing down his throat in a blink.

“And now you don’t,” he says with a grin that dominates his entire face. “Come on, I won’t bite.”

Without a backup excuse, Florence acquiesces, sliding her hand into his palm. His skin is different than Tom’s, worn and calloused, his hand swallowing hers with is sheer size as he cradles one palm in his own, his other hand snaking around her waist. He smiles at her again, and then they are moving, Forsythe slightly off beat but no less graceful because of it.

“I told you I wasn’t a good dancer,” he says, his eyes trained above her head as they spin around the room.

“I think you have it out for me,” Florence teases. “Mary Helen is going to see us dancing and send an assassin after me.”

“To be frank, you better hope that my mother doesn’t see us dancing. She gets her hopes up every time I’m in the same room as a girl let alone dancing with one.”

“My mom did the same thing to Owen before he met Radella, and it didn’t help that Albion’s known who he was going to marry since he was about thirteen.”

“I can’t wait to get him absolutely plastered at his wedding.”

“Get in line,” Florence challenges, and they both smile at each other briefly.

“You know,” Forsythe says after a moment, the music building pleasantly behind them as the horn section slips into action. “I’m probably going to regret saying this since it took me nearly seven Firewhiskeys and a glass of champagne to work up the nerve.” He pauses, and then looks down at Florence, his olive skin turning pink with embarrassment. “But you look beautiful tonight, Flor.”

His childhood nickname falls from his lips seemingly without thought, and then a second later he looks away shrugging sheepishly as if horrified by this admission. Florence feels a pang throughout her abdomen – one part appreciation – one party pity.

“Thank you, Forsythe,” Florence murmurs, because there is nothing else to say. Because even though she knows he means more by it, it is still a wonder to be held in the arms of a handsome young man and called beautiful – a wonder Florence does not know if she will ever be accustomed too.

“And,” he continues, and Florence notes that his jaw has tensed, as if he is forcing himself to push the following words from his lungs. “I know I can be a bit of a recluse with me and my plants, but it would take a blind person not to see how happy you are with Riddle, and I’m happy for you.”

He meets her gaze at the end, as if hoping she will see that he is genuine somewhere within his gaze. Florence smiles.

“I am happier than I deserve, that is for sure,” Florence agrees.

“I wouldn’t say that. Happy as you deserve, maybe,” he offers, as if weighing the pros and cons of the phrasing.

“Are you a poet now as well as a farmer?” Florence teases, and she can feel his shoulder relax under her hand as the moment passes and they move onto safer ground.

“Picking up a side gig. Mom wants me to get out more.”

The song ends and Tom approaches to find Florence and Forsythe laughing over the sight of Tallulah and Dallas Parker pressed nose to nose with no mind for the fact that the song has ended. Tom watches them with cool indifference, and Florence notes that his eyes flicker to scan Forsythe one time from head to foot before he silently offers her his hand and pulls Florence into his grasp.

“I thought you said you were coming to find me?”

He is not unkind, but she can hear the line of cold in his tone. Florence allows the hand on his shoulder to slide behind his neck so that her fingers can interlace with his hair, forcing his gaze down to hers.

“Tallulah was up to her usual trickery.”

Tom nods at this, accepting her explanation, but not before pressing his lips to hers for a fleeting second, as if marking her as his while Forsythe is still in view.

“How late does this party go until?” Tom asks, lifting his arm for Florence to spin under only to pull her back, flush against his frame.

“I don’t know, at least two in the morning, although Albion swears that last year he didn’t get home until four.”

“And if I told you I was tired of sharing you with the riff raff?”

Florence knows he is trying to maintain a light tone, but the way his fingers dig into her back she knows he really is ready to leave. _To have you to himself_ a sinister voice in her mind whispers.

“Just because they are American does not mean they are riff raff,” Florence murmurs, her lips finding the pulse in his throat despite the throng of people that still surround them.

“Mhmm.”

“One more dance, and then we can go,” Florence tells him, and his arms tighten around her until they are not even dancing, only swaying in place as one.

True to her word, after the following song Tom takes Florence’s hand and leads her to find her family and bid them goodnight. Albion waves from out on the dance floor where he and Margaret are spinning, and Eudora informs them both that Owen has already retired for the night having had one too many drinks. Her dad gives her a smile and waves them away, and at last they are free to step into the Floo and spin through green nothingness until they reappear in the darkness that is the main parlor.

Florence allows Tom to lead her through her home, their fingers loosely interlaced as he moves a step before, his hair nearly as dark as the shadows through which they move. In her hazy state, she cannot stop her eyes from fixating upon the stray daisy petal that has caught in his curls, nor admiring the confidence with which he moves through her home, as if this too is his. When he opens the door to her room, Florence unquestioningly steps in behind him, shutting the door and sealing them in silence.

At once Tom’s arms are around Florence’s waist, his face buried in her neck, inhaling deeply against her skin. He holds her without moving, without exploring, as if he could melt his being into hers. Florence’s hands cradle his head, content to be within his hold, desperate for the evening not to end.

“I don’t think I will be able to sleep,” he murmurs against her throat, his lips like dried petals against the crease of her jaw. “If I call for some tea, will you stay with me?”

“Of course,” Florence assures him, her fingers raking across his scalp so that the final few petals fall from his hair. Tom leans back and offers her a lazy smile, his posture somewhat slouched. _Maybe he has had more to drink than he realizes_ Florence thinks with a happy grin.

Tom calls for Waylon without releasing her, who returns only a few minutes later with a steaming tray with two cups, tea bags of every kind, and a box of cookies.

“Waylon, you’re incredible,” Florence says through a yawn. Tom, who still has not released her, presses his mouth to her temple.

“No yawning,” he commands, but his voice is still relaxed. Something inside of Florence’s chest burns.

 _I love you_.

Tom attempts to move toward the table bearing the tea, but finds his actions impeded when he discovers that Florence still has a hold upon his neck.

“Tom?”

“Yes, Florence?”

His breath is warm in her ear, and she shivers.

“Will you help me take my dress off?”

He leans back slightly so that he can see her eyes, his porcelain face blank as midnight eyes bore into her own. He kisses her as an answer, light and chaste and over before it begins, and then he nods mutely.

Tom pulls her into the center of the room so that she is bathed fully in the light of the moon, circling to stand behind her as his fingers move to her zipper, working it slowly down her back. Florence sighs deeply as her ribs at last take advantage of the ability to expand, the fabric of her gown pooling at her feet. She can feel Tom’s breath at her neck, his hands tracing up and down her bare back. Clothed in nothing but her panties, Florence takes Tom’s proffered hand and steps to the right out of the dress. From behind her she can hear him laying the gown over the back of the chair, his dress shoes clacking upon the wooden floor.

“This too?” Tom asks, and his finger skates across the necklace he has given her. Florence shivers.

“Please.”

Tom complies without further comment, delicate fingers pulling apart the clasp and then moving to lay the piece of jewelry across her dress. Without the necklace on, Florence suddenly feels infinitely more naked than before, as if some kind of shield has been removed. She can hear Tom move through the doorway into her bedroom, pausing for a moment before he returns, the heat radiating upon her back the only warning that he is near.

“Can I put this back on you?”

Florence looks over her shoulder so see him holding his ring, his face completely blank, as if he thinks that after everything they have shared in the past few hours alone she would reject him. She smiles and nods, too content to wonder what is running through his ever confounding mind. The ring slides onto her finger, comforting in its coldness, a familiar weight that she had not realized she was missing until it was returned. For such a small stone, it was quite heavy.

“May I help you?” Florence asks, turning fully to face him. She watches, her face warming considerably, as his gaze rakes up and down her form, eyes pausing momentarily to observe between her legs, her chest. Tom nods, again silent, and Florence pads across the floor to him, sliding her hands along his shoulders and slipping off his coat.

“I never told you,” she murmurs while her hands work, slipping across his frame to pull his sash over his head. Tom’s eyes lock upon her face, watching her with hawk-like predation as her fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt. “But you were very handsome in this.” Her finger taps lightly on his collarbone, as if pointing to his garments. Tom smirks, his eyes like coals in the darkness.

“Do you feel like a woman now that you are a member of society?” he asks, his head falling to the side as Florence slides his shirt from his form as well. Her fingers rake across this chest, reveling in their closeness, in their ability to map every inch of his skin.

“I feel remarkably the same.”

“Was the ceremony worth it?”

“What – agreeing to participate so I could go to Hogwarts? Of course it was,” Florence replies, pressing her lip to this collarbone. “Wouldn’t you agree? You would not be here if I had not chosen so.”

“Yes,” he concedes. “I agree.”

“These also?” Florence taps a finger upon his pants, and Tom shakes his head yes. Her fingers quiver slightly as she pulls at the clasp. “Shoes off,” she adds, reaching for his zipper.

Tom’s hands close around her arms as he toes off his dress shoes. Once they have been nudged to the side, she lets his trousers fall, leaving both of them standing before one another in nothing but their knickers – Tom’s with obvious tenting.

“Tea?” He asks, returning Florence’s eyes to his face, which is wicked with a smirk so sinful that Florence feels her entire face go red.

“Please.”

Wandlessly Tom’s clothes fold themselves while simultaneously one of the padded armchairs expands large enough for both of them. It will never cease to amaze her, Florence thinks, as she watches him reach for a bag of chamomile, how he controls magic like it is nothing more than breathing. She knows that even with seven full years of practical magical education, she could never dream of doing what Tom does without thought. The thought does not make her feel inadequate, instead, she feels a strange sense of pride that someone of his ability would choose to be here with her. How affirming.

“I have something for you,” Florence blurts out without thinking. Tom turns to face her, a perfectly shaped brow rising as he once more scans her bare form with a smirk. It is unfair that he manages to look so poised sipping tea in the middle of the night in nothing more than his boxers, and yet he is some type of Adonis, statuary brought to life.

“I’m sure it has _nothing_ to do with our current state of dress,” he sneers, but his voice is warm and he holds out his hand as if waiting for Florence to complete him. She takes it without question, sliding into his lap so that her thighs are pressed to the outside of his hips. The tips of his fingers drag up her quad, stopping short of her underwear before smoothly running back down her leg again. The motion makes her feel faint.

“No,” she breathes, and flushes at how desperate her own voice sounds with so little prompting. “It’s actually outside, but we can finish the tea first.”

Tom’s arm wraps around her waist so that he can hold her to him as he reaches for the pot, pouring her a cup and adding a splash of cream before handing her the saucer. He watches with strange fascination as she takes as sip, as if it is the most enchanting thing he has ever seen. His tongue darts between his lips, and Florence can feel the cool exhale of his breath raising goosebumps across her flesh.

“What?” Florence mumbles, desperate for him to break the heady gaze that is making her squirm with adrenaline and desire. Tom’s eyes return to hers and _fuck_ he is beautiful, capable of destroying her with only one look.

“In all this time you have been reading me the _Iliad_ ,” he begins, and Florence feels a rumble of surprise pass through her. His voice is low and musical, like he is reciting words he has thought a thousand times. “I found it all very plausible except for one thing.”

“What – the immortal gods directing human actions?”

“No,” he smirks, pressing a finger to the underside of her cup so that she will drink again. “That one woman’s beauty was enough to launch a thousand ships. I thought it so ridiculous, improbable, an overstatement of human weakness.”

“Of course.”

“But I understand now,” he says evenly, and one of his hands runs up her side, his thumb brushing under the curve of her breast. Heat explodes where he touches her, and Florence must take a steadying breath.

“You stepped onto that balcony, and I was prepared to lead a thousand ships across the ocean or restructure the constellations for you if needed.”

“ _Tom_.” Florence’s mind is spinning, and she wants to kiss him almost as much as she wants him to continue talking, to say those words to her that he only finds the time for when his guard is down, when they are alone.

“But if you are Helen, that that makes me Menelaus, and I am not so weak willed as to let you escape.” He sounds mutinous.

“Menelaus isn’t weak, and besides, I have told you a thousand times that you are Achilles.”

Tom frowns.

“Helen does not love Achilles, that does not match our tale.”

Florence wants to laugh at his frustration but she knows his confusion is genuine, and any mockery of it will halt the conversation completely. Florence sets her tea upon the table, lacing her hands behind his neck and letting her thumb trace his hairline.

“Art imitates life, life does not imitate art, Tom. No matter how hard we might try, we can’t perfectly mimic it,” she says, leaning closer still so that she can smell the honey upon his breath. “You can be Achilles – brilliant and strong and capable – and I can be Helen, who…I don’t know,” she looks over his shoulder out the window, searching for the proper words. “Chases men across seas or something like that, and we can still be together.”

“I do not understand,” he replies, and his hands rest upon her hips, fingers pressing into the flesh of her backside.

“There’s nothing to understand, it’s just a story.”

“But you said I was like him?”

“You are,” Florence whispers, and she is frustrated in her inability to clarify, to give the young man in her arms the understanding from a childhood he had never had. How strange that he could comprehend the highest level of magical theory, and yet not this. How sad. “It is only a comparison.”

“I don’t want a comparison,” Tom said, and his voice has taken on a sharp ring. “Had I been Menelaus, I would never have let you leave, and then I would have launched a thousand ships to claim Troy in your honor. He was weak, and a fool.”

“He was just a human, Tom.”

“Humans _are_ weak.”

Florence kisses him instead of answering, because she can and because she does not understand his sudden anger. His mouth opens to hers and she can taste the chamomile on his tongue, feel the sugar that sticks to his teeth. Tom’s hands stray to her back, pulling her in and closer until she can hardly breathe, his fingers pulling at the pins in her hair until Florence’s mane of caramel waves has been freed for Tom to comb his fingers through and pull upon.

Tom deepens the kiss, his mouth insistent against hers, nails digging into her ribs with slight pinpricks of pain. Florence feels a moan slither upward from her throat when his lips find her neck, traversing to her collarbone, finally landing upon her breast.

“What if I want this too?” He asks, his lips closing over a nipple, his tongue moving in ways that are unspeakable. Florence’s eyes flutter closed, her hands knotting at the back of his head as if rooting herself to him. “As a part of my gift?” Her brain struggles to focus, mind overcome with pleasure as his mouth moves across her skin, hands continuing their exploration of every inch of her body. She knows what he is asking, and never once does she think of denying him – of denying herself.

Florence tugs on his hair so that his mouth releases from her chest. His gaze is hooded, curls riotous from the work of Florence’s fingers, skin like molten silver in the moonlight. Everywhere her skin touches his burns, his jaw cutting the night air like a knife that she wants to cut herself upon. Florence feels that rising wave of inevitability within her, but for perhaps the first time, it does not reduce her to fear. Instead she smiles, leaning forward so that her lips hover over his.

“You can have this too – I am already yours.”

Tom stands with Florence in his arms, pulling her towards her bedroom without a word, his face alight with wonder and desire alike in an expression so devastating that fire erupts throughout Florence’s system. They clamber onto the bed and she laughs when he grabs her thighs and forces them open, smiling down at her from above like he has summitted a mountain or learned to fly. _I love you_ she recalls saying, and she reaches for him, pulling his lips back to hers while those long, delicate fingers that have haunted her dreams for months make short work of her underwear, of his boxers.

They fit together as two humans were always meant to, like two parts of a whole rejoicing in their union with each meeting of their hips. Tom’s face hovers above hers – resting upon his elbows so that he can see her every reaction, memorize the signs of her pleasure. Had Florence not been so overwhelmed with the desire that flowed through her, she might have been terrified by the triumph in his gaze, the absolute desperation in every line of his face for her and her alone. How could she ever meet the need she saw within him, how could anyone? And yet every time he moved his hips against hers, pleasure and pain simultaneously pouring through her body, Florence thinks only of how she wants to be the only person to reduce him to this wanton, quivering state

“ _Tom,_ ” she whispers, but it is guttural and boneless, and every nerve in her system is electricity. No one has ever touched her there, been _inside_ of her in a way that is so intimate she feels as if her very soul was written upon her skin for his observation, and yet she feels not flayed alive, but upon display like a crown jewel. Tom’s eyes flutter closed as his head tilts back, burying himself again until Florence cannot think. _Ungodly beautiful_ she remembers, and he is, serious face shattered with ecstasy that only they can share.

“ _Florence,_ ” he groans, and his thumb finds where they are joined and she thinks nothing else except that she doesn’t want him to stop, that she never wants to share this with another in her life.

Tom says her name again as he comes, and never before has she heard him sound so frail, so afraid.

Even long after they have both come and their breathing has returned to normal and Tom is once more soft, he does not pull away, remaining sheathed inside of Florence as his fingertips trace over her collarbone. Florence’s arms wrap around his waist.

“Will you say it again?” Tom asks sometime later, at last rolling onto his side and severing the intimate connection of their bodies. Florence giggles like a schoolgirl at the request, but when she turns to see his face blank and wide as if he is asking for the moon itself, she stills.

“I love you.”

The look his gives her is too intense, and she must bury herself in his shoulder, allowing their legs to tangle as he pulls the sheets over her body, trapping Florence against him. His arms snake around her, his chin pressed to her forehead, and with each breath she slips closer toward dreams.

“I do not know what that means.”

Tom’s voice reaches her as if from across the universe, small and tired and nothing like the young man she has come to revolve around, almost angry at his own inability to understand something. Something in her chest tightens in grief, and her lips find his chest.

“It’s everything.”

Sleep takes her before he has time to respond.

.

.

.

Florence wakes to an empty bed, the sky outside of her window one shade lighter than midnight – a few hours before a full sunrise. Her abdomen aches as she rolls onto her back, and lifting the sheets to stare down at her body, she can feel the dried slick between her legs, and she remembers.

Tom is pacing at the foot of her bed, his feet most certainly magically silenced so that he can move without waking her. Yet when the blankets settle once more around her, Florence finds that he has stilled, his eyes finding hers across the room, black and unknowable.

“Why are you up?” Florence asks, her hand stretching to touch the space he had occupied beside her upon the bed. Tom’s face is like granite – unwavering.

“I was thinking.”

“About what?”

“Something big,” he says, the lines of his mask melting into his usual smirk as the roiling in his voice settles into something low and alluring. Florence feels herself smile at the old line between the two of them, and she flops back upon the pillows.

“I’ve been thinking,” Florence says, holding out her hand to him. “That after we finish the _Iliad_ , we have to find another book.”

“I have plenty to recommend,” Tom murmurs, his voice like velvet as he takes her hand.

“No, I don’t want to read a textbook.”

“How will you ever learn magic if you refuse to be challenged?” Tom asks, and although his face is serious, Florence laughs.

“That’s what I have you for.”

Tom smirks and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, Florence’s hand still held in his own, his face illuminated by the pale light through the window. 

“Will you show me the rest of my gift?” He asks, his eyes straying out past the horizon where Florence cannot follow.

“Greedy, aren’t you?” She teases, but she sits up all the same, intent upon showing him what she had done.

“I want the world,” he agrees, and Florence chooses to ignore the gravity in his voice, his tone far too cool to be misconstrued.

“It’s in my trunk. Go and see.”

Tom raises a brow at her, but complies after a moment, moving across the floor to the far side of the room. She watches with baited breath as he squats before the trunk, peeling open the lid and leaning forward to see inside. After a moment his entire body goes rigid.

“How did you transport this?” He asks, and Florence wonders if he is curious or impressed – or both.

“I had Lizzie place an undetectable extension charm on my trunk, and I had one of the house elves take it from your room.”

Tom gets to his feet again, in his grasp is the Dittany sapling that is now nearly half his size. The small, round leaves glisten like fish scales, and she can smell the sharp, medical scent even across the room.

“I was under the impression that this was already mine,” Tom says at last, his eyes finding hers through the branches. In some way she knows it is another challenge – to prove that she had the right to things that were his.

“I thought we could plant it here. I spoke it Illini while I was home, and she said it would be welcome on the edge of her copse.”

“Plant it?” And Tom’s voice is oddly hollow, as if she has pierced his side.

“I want part of you here with me, even when you’re back in England,” Florence admits, and it is possibly the most selfish thing she has ever said. Tom’s Dittany tree rings with a magical signature that is entirely his own, and over the upcoming years when he is off traversing the world and gathering knowledge or teaching at Hogwarts, she wants to have some spot upon her estate that is entirely him. Tom nods his agreement, but if he is touched by the gesture, Florence cannot tell in the darkness.

They dress in the shadows, Florence offering Tom a pair of her jeans to transfigure while she pulls on her own pair. It takes all of her concentration to ignore the way his eyes follow her every moment, waiting until her body is fully clothed before ripping his eyes from her and tugging on his own clothing. Outside, the sky is a fraction lighter, the stars blinking out one by one.

“Shall we?” He asks, and Florence steps into his arms, allowing him to pull her away into apparition.

This time they reappear at the top of Illini’s hill, the indistinguishable sounds of nature filling the void around them. Tom’s arm stays around Florence as she reaches for the Dittany plant, breathing deeply of its metallic scent, her bare toes digging into the dirt beneath her feet. The world is still, and a onceover reveals that Illini is not present – most likely off hunting in the early hours of the morning.

“Over here,” Florence points, dragging Tom to the side of the clearing where two fully grown oaks stood tall as sentinels. She did not want their tree beside pines who might one day grow to overshadow it, smothering the silvery-sage leaves with needles and sap – she wanted Tom’s tree to grow alongside the most noble of specimens, and the two white oaks were ideal for her intentions.

“Will you get rid of the pot please?”

Without comment Tom taps the terracotta container, vanishing it so that Florence’s fingers are digging instead into soil. She sets it upon the ground, eyeing its distance from the edge of the clearing, and thus satisfied with its room to grow, steps back.

“Would you like to do it, or shall I?” Florence asks.

“You,” Tom says, and his eyes are gleaming. She smiles and nods, turning back to see the young tree shiver in the early morning breeze.

It is the same song, in fact the same words, that she used on Samhain. It rises from within her like the phrases were a portion of her very being, like her soul had been born to sing amongst the spirits. The air warms considerably as magic flows like currents of lava, free and driven and both within and without her, merging herself with the magic of the plant and the earth before Florence. With her eyes closed, she cannot see when the tree begins to take root, but through the soles of her feet she can feel the shivers of the land as the ground itself offers its resources to the tiny tree – as the Dittany shoots upward, trunk widening, leaves broadening beneath the final rays of moonlight. She can _feel_ it, the slow steady pulse of life that makes her words catch in her throat because it is beautiful to share a moment of growth with magic itself.

When at last Florence’s voice falls silent, she opens her eyes to find that the Dittany tree towers far above her, her body swaying as the final vestiges of external magic separate themselves from her own, leaving her exhausted upon her feet. Within seconds Tom is behind her, arms around her stomach, pressing her back against him so that her head falls upon his shoulder. His face finds its place buried in her neck. Florence smiles, relaxing into his grip.

“Thank you, Florence,” he mumbles into her skin, his hand tightening on her stomach. She is too tired to realize it is the first time he has ever thanked her directly.

“Of course, angel,” she coos, reaching up to pull on a stray curl. He smells like Firewhiskey and Dittany and something far more sinful, and the thought makes her smile.

A moment later, Florence’s head falls back into full laughter when he lifts her off the ground, carrying her to the Dittany tree, pressing her into its bark. Her legs wrap around his hips, his lips finding hers as they mark this place as their own in a another way with a magic of another kind. It is older, arcane, an enchantment that requires nothing at all except to give yourself to another completely, and as their bodies slide into one, Florence knows without question she has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for being here:) Truly appreciate each of you!!


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you for all of the incredible feedback I have been getting recently!! I am currently working on chapter 42, it's looking like this will be around 50 chapters? I haven't exactly mapped it out but I do know where it is going, so just a little guess, but I'm so excited to finally get pen to paper about the conclusion of this story. Well, the final buildup to the conclusion. We've come to far, and yet still so far to go!!
> 
> You readers are wonderful. I hope that wherever you are, you continue to stay safe during Covid! Thanks for being here and happy reading Xx

**Chapter 39**

“All time is all time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is. Take it moment by moment, and you will find that we are all, as I've said before, bugs in amber.”   
― Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five

Florence’s final months at Hogwarts were marred by the looming arrival of N.E.W.T.s, each of the seventh years burrowing within their respective common rooms or public study spaces to read through the goblin wars of the sixteenth century until their eyes ran, or to examine detailed drawings of various potions ingredients. She would have liked to say that the intense work ethic she was continuously surrounded by inspired Florence to aim higher, achieve more in her classes, but Florence felt a waning interest in what her lessons could bring as she attempted to repay the kindness her friends had afforded her during her father’s absence.

For Lizzie – who largely wanted to be left alone – it meant buying her the perfume she had mentioned wanting several months ago from _Witch Weekly_. She cried when Florence gave it to her, although Florence reasoned it was most likely a result of no sleep instead of true sentiment. Elizabeth Greengrass was never one to bend to her emotions.

Radella had only one N.E.W.T. in Transfiguration, and so Florence often found herself strolling the grounds during spare hours of the day quizzing her on pronunciation or the most effective methods to transfigure dust mites or change the color of flower petals. More often, they fell into conversations about Owen. Radella carried every letter he’d ever written her in her school bag – a stack of parchment that seemed to be growing at such an exponential rate that finally Florence broke down and asked how much they weighed.

“Did you see his new publication in _U.S. Transfiguration Weekly_?” Radella gushed, her emerald eyes roving over a page of Owen’s uniform handwriting at such speed that Florence was convinced she’d memorized it.

“No, I can’t say that I did,” she said with a smirk. “Most of Owen’s research goes over my head.”

“You have to read it, Florence!” Radella’s mouth fell open, aghast. “You’re his sister!”

“I am aware.”

“He would read it if you’d written something,” Radella encouraged.

“Yeah, he would. But seeing as I won’t be publishing anything, it’s a bit of a moot point.”

“You sound like Albion,” Radella accused, and this made Florence’s head roll back with laughter.

“I’m horrified.”

Unlike Lizzie and Radella, Philip seemed to find that he was most successful when he worked in a group. Uncommitted as she was towards her own studies, Florence became his unofficial tutor, drilling him on the finer points of herb lore and correcting his translations into late hours of the morning. It was perhaps the first time since she had met him that Philip’s smile came less readily, as if the upcoming examinations physically prevented his usually cheerful demeanor from surfacing.

“It’s a shame you’re only good at half our subjects. I could use help with Defense,” Philip moaned late one night in the library. Lizzie glared at him from across the table, as if any form of disturbance was a personal affront. Florence shivered under the cool gaze.

“Thank you for that delightful reminder,” Florence hissed, her face burning slightly as the acrid taste of burnt pride resurfaced across the back of her tongue.

“S’not a lie though,” he said through a yawn, checking his watch to see that it was nearing closing time. “You’d think after an entire year of private lessons with Riddle you’d be useful.”

“I’m not going to make up for six missed years in a few months, idiot,” Florence snapped, but she felt herself smiling at his teasing tone nonetheless. She did not bother to tell him that the other day she had cast a flawless impedimenta jinx for the first time, certain that it would bring further ridicule down upon herself. Tom had locked the doors and taken her across the desk afterward, making her Charms lesson the next day uncomfortably arousing as the memory of his delicate features pinched in pleasured hovered in the back of her mind.

Even Tom, who had informed Florence himself that he would achieve nothing less than twelve _Outstanding’s,_ was less available, his time devoted to patrolling the library for noise-makers and burying himself in his carefully crafted notes from the past two years. Florence often found herself sound asleep in one of the chairs in his quarters as he meticulously moved through his work, shaken awake just before curfew to be sent back to the Ravenclaw Common Room.

“Bed,” he would command, raking a hand through her hair, rousing her from dreams she could not remember.

“Walk with me?”

“I have further studying to do,” he would counter.

“You’re the best student in this hemisphere, I think you can afford to take ten minutes to escort me to my common room,” Florence would groan, snatching his hand from her hair and holding him with an exaggerated grip as if to prove her possession over him. Tom’s face would flush, leaving Florence to decide if he cared more for her compliment or her desire. Most of the time she thought it was both.

When he could be convinced to separate himself from his books, he was at Florence’s side – walking her to class, strolling the grounds, showing her the hidden secrets of the castle. His face would glow softly at the revelation of every hidden passage, each crevasse that he had discovered during his years in the school, the idea that he possessed knowledge others were not privy too intoxicating upon his regal features.

“Show me something else,” Florence would ask, and without further prodding Tom would take her hand, pulling her to the Astronomy tower at night to point out the constellations she could not see from America, or he would go the kitchens, tickling the pear in the painting and requesting an entire platter of tea and biscuits. Florence ate so many chocolate eclairs that she’d almost thrown up, and Tom had laughed at her as she lay across his bed, bemoaning the ache in her stomach. And sometimes he would not take her anywhere special at all, pulling her into an unused classroom or darkened alcove with a look that could burn cities and remind Florence again of the magic that they shared, of the enchantment of his lips against hers, of the way he could make her say his name like it was every blessing known to mankind.

.

.

.

“I have purchased a flat in London,” Tom says one day while they are sitting in the library. It is a mild Wednesday afternoon, sunlight streaming through the window so that Tom’s pale skin seems to be emitting light of its own, his eyes all the more dark for it. Florence looks up from the Charms essay she has been struggling over for the past two hours, meeting his midnight gaze across the table.

“I thought you were going to ask Dippet if you could teach at Hogwarts?”

Florence does not ask where he got the money. Just like the diamond necklace he had given her, she had a sinking suspicion that had something to do with the Slytherin purebloods that were always fawning over him, and she opted for ignorance.

“That is my wish,” he agrees. “But many of the teachers do not live on the premises – they Floo in from Hogsmeade or other wizarding villages. I could have rooms both here and in London – a space to return to on holidays.”

“Do you think Dippet will give you the job?” Florence asks, leaning forward slightly.

“There is no one more capable.”

Florence has to agree with this. Only last night he’d snuck her from her common room after curfew had set in to show her a spell he had read about in the restricted section, a spell that turned the entire top layer of the black lake to ice with the barest flick. He’d taken her walking out on the floats afterward, listening as it cracked beneath their feet, cold seeping slowly upwards through their bodies. It had been his first attempt at the spell, but of course it had been flawless, of course he had understood the theory without question.

“Can I come see it?” Florence asks, returning to the present. “The flat? Before I head home, that is.” She wants to know what a space that is entirely Tom looked like. His quarters here, while spartan in a way that reminded Florence of his no-nonsense mannerisms, were those of a boy pretending to be a man, furnished by Hogwarts to meet the barest needs of an only recently of age youth. What would an apartment that he had chosen look like?

Tom’s face is perfectly smooth – faultless with skin that is alabaster and taught, like the finest carvings of marble brought to life. He does not say anything, but it is no matter. Florence has keys to some of his masks – although not all – and she knows what the widening of his pupils implies, the whitening of his knuckles upon his quill. Sometimes, she thinks, great men should be taken at face value – appraised as the humans they are. 

Florence offers him her largest smile.

.

.

.

When Florence does have a rare moment to herself between Tom’s insatiable hands or the worried minds of her friends, she remembers that she is supposed to be learning to fly. Tom has not mentioned the competition since the day he issued it, a sure sign that he was working tirelessly upon the task when they were apart, desperate to defeat her as he would everyone in the castle when it came time for examinations. This was the only test they would share, and Tom did not like losing.

She doesn’t go to the library to learn. That is Tom’s domain, and there is no point in trying to glean information from textbooks whose theories would tie her thoughts into knots and exhaust her eyes to the point of tears. For Tom, flying will mean wresting power from the skies, stealing the strength of the wind to be his own. For Florence, it will mean melting, lifting off the ground like dried leaves or fledgling blue jays caught in a stray breeze. She does not wish to claim flight – she does not truly wish to fly at all, but she craves the burn in Tom’s gaze like it is oxygen, the rare compliments that will fall from aristocratic lips as she soars above him.

On many afternoons she makes her way down to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, leaning against the trunk of some massive tree, watching Thestrals and thrushes, fairies and finches, owls swooping low across the grass, and even once she convinces herself there are Hippogriffs living upon the grounds as she watches what she assumes to be a herd of them amongst the clouds. She studies their wings, their propulsion, the way they bob and dip upon currents Florence cannot see.

In the hallways she studies the ghosts, watching as they float upon the air or nothingness itself. More than once Tom catches her staring, a knowing look upon his features that makes Florence blush before once more turning to watch her quarry. Even Peeves is worth examining – loop-de-loops and corkscrews and zig-zagging patterns that showcase mastery of flight beyond Florence’s wildest imagination.

When it is too dark for her to see the creatures that take to the air, Florence treks up to the Astronomy tower on nights when there aren’t classes. She sings with the wind, rustling with the trees, howling through the turrets of the castle until her voice is raw and the night has chilled her to the bone. The breeze seems to know her desire, pushing and pulling simultaneously, beckoning her to step off the edge and plummet into darkness, to spiral amongst the currents of warm and cold air as free as a feather.

One night Tom tracks her to the tower, watching from the doorway unbeknownst to Florence as her arms outstretch into the void, her hair whips and crackles in the gale she has conjured. Wind, Florence is learning as the spirits of the land spill from her mouth, is what it means to be indefinable. Present and not, cold and warm, terrible and gentle, breaker of trees and rustler of grasses. Should she ask to be weightless, or to compact the air beneath her feet and walk across the skies like walking upon land? Does she want to be carried, or direct herself across the horizon as Apollo in his chariot of old?

“You were rattling the windows in my bedroom,” Tom’s roiling voice calls when Florence at last falls silent, too drained to question the ways of the wind any longer. She turns to see him leaning against the stone wall, wan skin pinkening under the gusts.

“You’re cheating,” Florence pants, leaning against the turret beside her, strands of caramel hair falling across her face, small flickers of electricity still dancing in her waves.

“I cannot speak Cherokee, Florence.”

“I think you knew what I was intending regardless.”

“Have you heard back from your father?” Tom asks, stepping forward at last to join her upon the edge of the tower. Florence had written to him asking for an official position on the estate, a surprisingly nerve-wracking request that had resulted in Tom being forced to listen as she read aloud her letter no less than a hundred times.

“Yes,” Florence says through a weak smile, watching as he draws closer. Something about him is luminous in the moonlight, as if Tom glows brighter in darkness.

“And?”

“He is going to start me in the greenhouses when I get home. If I show promise in management, he’ll move me out into the fields.”

She thought her heart might burst with the words. The greenhouses were the most fragile stage – plants no more than wispy stalks that at any moment could succumb to starvation or poor nutrients or just plain bad luck. It was a symbol of Clifford’s trust in her that she would be overseeing teams of growers in this early phase before life had even grounded itself.

“And then,” Tom murmurs, and Florence finds her back pressed to the stone wall behind her like a block of ice seeping through her layers. His body is an inferno, somehow still warm despite the windstorm that has sapped all of Florence’s strength. “You will return to England. To me.”

There is a gleam in his eye that she cannot place, his delicate, porcelain features hard with an expression Florence does not recall. Something akin to insecurity, but more desperate, leaving him shrouded in mysteries Florence has spent the better part of a year trying to understand. His hand cups her cheek, thumb brushing over her mouth, his head falling to the side as he surveys her.

“Maybe after all of your travels and learning, you will discover it is America you like best.”

Tom’s hand hardens around her jaw, forcing her gaze to his.

“You swore you would follow me, to the ends of the Earth,” he reminds her, and his face is dangerously close, the clinical smell of him overriding her senses until her brain is frantic.

“Of course I’ll move to England when it’s over. Albion and Owen will get the farm and the business, and I will have nothing. There is not a world in Georgia for me, but you will be here, you will be my world.”

Tom kisses her at these words, and it’s frightening how hard it is, like being struck with a battering ram and leaving her senses scattered across the field far below. Florence reaches for him, her arms – despite their exhaustion – bereft without the feel of Tom beneath her fingerprints, eager for the silk-like feel of his curls in her hands. He kisses her like he is angry, like he could summon a storm, his magic a deafening whirl to Florence’s already sensitive native magic.

“I could be your world now, I am everything you will ever need,” Tom hisses into her neck, his hands reaching for her skirt, pushing the fabric up. Florence’s head falls back against the turret as she grasps his shoulders, lifting her legs to wrap around his hips. Her body is in shock, energized by the cold around her, the heat of Tom’s fingers digging into her waist, her thighs, her back. Robes fall from her shoulders and from his, and Florence’s mind somewhere in its daze bemoans the layers of fabric between them. Her fingers reach for his belt, tugging at it until she hears the now familiar sound of its release. Tom’s fingers make quick work of her knickers, the sudden blast of cold air between her legs an agony that only he can mend.

“Say it,” he demands, and Florence’s eyes close as she feels him pressed against her sex, poised to take her, to remind her for the millionth time of the magic only they can create. “Say it, Florence.”

“I love you,” she tells him, and he pushes inside of her.

Florence’s back arches, her mouth open in a silent scream because despite the fact that they have committed this act in what feels like every corner of the castle, she is never prepared for the way having Tom inside of her makes a piece of her feel whole, like watercolors come to life, the unfurling of Spring, shooting stars flying across the line between sunset and night. When he moves, she loses all rational thought, her fingers digging into his shoulders, clawing at his sweater.

“You said it was everything,” Tom hisses, and he moves with each word, every thrust harder, bordering on painful. “ _I am everything_. I can be all that you need.”

Florence is too close to the edge, to falling into nothingness to respond. Perhaps sensing this, Tom’s hand slides between their bodies, his thumb finding that place that makes her crack and time cease to exist.

This time when she falls, she opens her eyes, his name upon her lips, the molten steel of his gaze the final fact that sends her over. She is too astounded by the feeling to notice that her coming undone is what sends Tom falling after her, as if even in pleasure she could not be separate from him. The idea that they must share this too amongst everything else.

When their breathing has returned and Florence’s feet are set once more upon the ground, Tom casts a cleaning spell and tucks himself back into his trousers. Florence can feel his eyes upon her face, tracing the lines of her profile as if he has never seen her before, learning her features anew. Still staring out across the grounds, she reaches for him, begging for his embrace to complete her. Too often after coupling Tom is distant, is if processing what has occurred between the two of them and thus incapable of being present with Florence. She wonders if it is a product of his upbringing, as if the idea of sharing something of yourself with another is like poison to his mind. Sometimes she asks him what he is thinking, but each answer is as vague and uncertain as the last, if he answers at all, and she has stopped questioning at this point. Tom finally complies, one arm snaking around her waist, the other cradling her head to his chest.

“We have the rest of our lives, Tom. A few years apart will be miserable, but inconsequential in the end,” Florence whispers into his collarbone.

Tom’s hands tighten around her, but she does not know if it is an act of agreement or possession. She does not know which she wants it to be.

.

.

.

“Where’s Riddle,” Lizzie asks one afternoon as they take a seat at their regular table in the library alcove of the Ravenclaw common room. It is one week before final examinations, and the tension throughout the castle has reached an almost unbearable level.

“Studying I’m sure,” Florence says, pulling out a book Tom has ordered her to read for their lessons – lessons he has insisted upon continuing despite the fact that N.E.W.T.s are drawing closer. “Why?”

“Because he’s always around, isn’t he?” Philip says, dropping his own textbook onto the table with an uncomfortably loud _bang_.

“Must you, Burke?” Lizzie drawls, her usual cool look gracing her features.

“I must, Greengrass. If it bothers you, go find Avery and the rest of the snakes and study with them.”

“It’s just because I’m going back to America in a month, that’s all,” Florence defends, infuriated with her body’s natural reaction to flush in embarrassment. Lizzie snorts, a very unladylike sound that under normal circumstances she would never make, but her exhaustion has lowered her inhibitions to the point of uncaring.

“You know, I’d hoped that with him agreeing to go to your debut and things becoming more official between the two of you, that Riddle would stop staring at you like a suckling pig, but I think it’s only gotten worse.”

Florence’s face changes from pink to ruddy red in a moment. There is no denying this. Since her debut, Tom has been incessantly _around_ like there is an invisible thread tying Florence too him. The only saving grace was that Tom saved their most _intimate_ interactions for when they were alone, but there was no stopping the wandering hands that found her own or tugged at her hair or traced her spine whenever they discovered themselves seated at a meal or in the library. He had even spelled the stairs to the girls dormitory to stop them from turning into a slide in order to kiss Florence goodnight on more than one occasion. Lizzie and the rest of the seventh years had laughed and laughed at Florence’s expense until she’d set one of their bed draping’s on fire in her annoyance.

“And what about you and Pyrrhus getting engaged in front of the entire school?” Florence throws back at Lizzie. This earned her an eye roll.

“That was pre-arranged. It’s different then you two strolling around campus together. You look like you’ve been hit by a hippogriff, and he looks like he wants to rip you apart limb by limb. It’s one part disgusting, another horrifying.”

“Thank you for your hard earned support, Lizzie dear,” Florence scoffs.

“I heard some very put out seventh year Slytherin girls discussing in my Charms lesson the other day what love potion they thought you’d given him,” Philip smirks. “I turned and told them you were too stupid to hoodwink Riddle, and that they were even stupider for thinking you could.”

“I mean honestly,” Florence says, her mouth open in indignation as she glanced between the two of them. “You two are terrible!”

“We’re just teasing you, darling,” Lizzie soothes at once, reaching across the table and taking Florence’s hand.

“Truth is, no one has ever seen Riddle show as much as a winks worth of interest in anyone during his seven years here, and no offense Florence, but you’re much too happy-go-lucky for Mr. Head Boy. We all thought he’d choose some dour, pureblood crone.”

Florence’s head tips back in laughter, unable to deny that she herself could picture this. Her laughter, however, only grows when a fourth voice joins the conversation.

“Is that me you are speculating over, Burke?”

Tom Riddle takes the seat beside Florence, his perfect brow raised as he surveys Philip across the table. Florence releases another giggle as Philip’s face turns pale, his eyes at once returning to the book before him. Florence does not notice the guarded look that settles upon Lizzie’s face.

“Riddle,” he mutters by way of greeting. Tom ignores this and turns to face Florence, his hand reaching for her face, pinching her chin between his finger and thumb before pulling her in for a chaste kiss. Having thus established himself at the table, Tom releases her and settles back into his chair.

“Why Burke,” he murmurs, his voice like a cool mountain stream, words rolling over polished boulders. “Would I want a ‘dour, pureblood crone’ as you so aptly put it, when I could have an outspoken, American?”

“Charming, Tom,” Florence scowls. He smirks at her, his eyes alight with the cold humor he gets from embarrassing her.

“If your goal was outspoken, you’ve got it,” Philip says, offering Florence one of his easy, freckled smiles that she was going to miss to the point of pain when she returned home to Georgia. “Just today she was informing me that if I didn’t want to work for my father, I should just _tell_ him. As if that was how the world turned.”

Tom’s smirk widens.

“Yes, her American sensibilities and independence do cloud her judgement,” he agrees, stretching one hand out to drape it across the back of her chair.

“I am right here,” Florence quips.

“What is the job your father has for you?” Tom asks, ignoring Florence’s comment.

“He wants me working in the store,” Philip admits, his simple face marred by a frown. “Dad’s too ugly and Herbert is too mean, so he wants me to go out and sweat talk all the old ladies across Wizarding England into giving over the priceless family heirlooms. Sounds like hell, aye?”

“Potentially. Are these magical artifacts?”

“Most of them, some of them not too nice either,” Philip admits, his frown deepening.

“Interesting,” Tom concedes, but his face is blank and Florence does not know what he is thinking. She remembers Tom admitting to searching for his own family heirloom – maybe he thinks he could find it in Philip’s shop? It is a logical conclusion.

“Florence, I forgot to tell you,” Lizzie begins after a moment. “My family is hosting a party to celebrate my formal engagement after school lets out. I’ve just been assuming you’ll be there so I hadn’t mentioned it, but my mother has already written to yours – the whole family is invited.”

“That sounds lovely, Lizzie,” Florence gushes, reaching for her friend’s hand to grasp in her own. “You won’t be able to flirt with Albion though, not with Pyrrhus around.”

“It’ll do your brother good to see how handsome my fiancé is I think,” Lizzie smirks, a spark of flint in her summer blue eyes.

“And of course, you’re invited too, Riddle,” Lizzie adds, her gaze flickering to Tom’s. “I know you’d hate for Florence to arrive unescorted.”

“Generous of you, Greengrass.”

“That’s an extra week in England,” Florence murmurs under her breath when they have all returned to their separate studying. Tom’s eagle feather quill pauses in its incessant scratching, midnight eyes turning to fixature upon hers, his stare burning its way slowly through her flesh to her pulse. There is a stirring of magic between them, and her heart shudders under the weight of it.

“One week is not enough to satisfy me, Florence.”

“It is better than nothing at all.”

.

.

.

Exams are a particularly dull time for Florence. She is the only seventh year within the castle _not_ taking N.E.W.T.s having not taken her O.W.L.s, and therefore she finds herself outcast amidst the sea of anxiety and frantic note shuffling and organizing and reviewing. Most days she takes to wandering through the Forbidden Forest, each stroll carrying her deeper and deeper into the woods until it feels like night in the middle of the day and she must ignite the tip of her wand to see by.

It is an old forest, the trees spaced out yards apart, trunks thick and creaking with words so slow and ancient even she cannot comprehend them. _What spirits live here_ she thinks with wonder, pressing her palm against the oak closest to her, feeling the magic beneath its bark churn slowly, like slowly drying amber. On some level she is shocked that it took her months to discover the wonders of the forest, on others she is not surprised in the least. Tom, for all his devotion to Florence, had no interest in Herbology or the finer points of plant lore. Of all the hidden secrets within the castle, the Forest _would_ be the least interesting to the young man who made rooms appear from blank walls or revealed hidden passages behind stone gargoyles.

It is on the last day of exams that Florence meets someone within the woods. Rounding the trunk of a particularly massive oak, she turns to find herself face to face with the end of a crossbow – a crossbow the size of her wingspan – the man holding it larger than a house.

“Students aren’t to be in here,” he growls as Florence stumbles back, lifting her hands before her in what she hopes is a placating manner. Within her chest, her heart thunders, her brain kicking into overdrive as she considers her foolishness. _You should have been listening to more than the trees_ she reprimands herself.

“I’m so sorry. I was just listening to the trees,” she murmurs, noting that the giant man has already lowered his crossbow to his side, releasing his finger from the trigger. He has a wild mane of scraggly black hair that makes him appear older, but his black eyes are youthful, if not tired, his face already twisted into a half smile that leaves Florence reeling.

“Listen’ aye? Never heard that one before.”

“I’m Florence,” she says, feeling somewhat stupid as she cranes her neck to look up at him.

“Hagrid,” he says gruffly.

“It’s nice to meet you, Hagrid.”

The name feels unfamiliar under her tongue, harsh and guttural for the giant-young man who’s body is angled slightly away from her, as if in embarrassment.

“It’d be a lot nicer if we were meetin’ somewhere you were allowed to be. I’ll get in trouble I will if you’re caught in the forest,” he says, scratching the back of his head with a hand the size of a trash can lid. Florence smiles at his uncertainty.

“I didn’t realize – I’m happy to walk back with you now if you’re headed that way.”

Despite being fairly tall in her own opinion, Florence has to move at a brisk trot to keep up with Hagrid’s lumbering strides, two of her own matching only one of his. Now that they are moving out of the forest, she remembers that she _has_ seen him before on the periphery of her Care of Magical Creatures classes or on the way to Herbology. He was the Hogwarts grounds man, but she’d never realized how young he was.

“What were ya doin’ in here anyways?” He asks again.

“I told you, listening to the trees,” Florence repeats. She can’t be annoyed, aware as she is how strange it must sound.

“I can’t say I knows what that means,” he mutters, refusing to look down at Florence, almost as if he’s embarrassed that he must escort her from the inner depths of the forest.

“I don’t really have time to explain,” Florence pants as she jogs along beside him. “But the spirits within all living things, they have voices of a sort. The ones in this forest are very old and very powerful.”

“Sounds like nonsense Professor Dumbledore would say,” he grunts. “Thouh’ you were him din I, but then I remembered he’s not at Hogwarts and I pulled me crossbow.” Florence turns to look up at him at the mention of Dumbledore. Now that Hagrid had mentioned it, she hadn’t seen the Transfiguration professor in a few days. “Sorry ‘bout that by the way. Din mean to scare ya.”

“That’s alright,” Florence says genially. “Where’s Professor Dumbledore?”

“Not sure, gone innit he?” Hagrid said with a poor imitation of airiness. Florence feels her face break into a smile, deciding not to press him. It’s odd, she considers, that he is so large and yet so cowed. A gentle giant.

At last they reach the edge of the forest, the trees thinning until once more they are standing upon the grass. Up at the caste students are streaming from the oaken front doors, a sign that the History of Magic N.E.W.T. has just let out. Sure enough, Florence spots one lone figure break away from the crowd, his black cloak like a shadow clinging to his towering form, Tom’s chocolate waves defined even at this distance. Hagrid bids her a hasty farewell, and then Florence finds herself running up the slope and into Tom’s arms, leaping into his grasp so that he must brace himself to catch her.

“What were you doing in the forest,” he asks, his eyes focused upon Hagrid’s retreating figure before returning to her face. She allows him to wrap an arm around her shoulder, steering Florence towards the edge of the lake where several of his gang of petty Slytherin friends have gathered.

“Listening,” she tells him.

“And what did your trees tell you?”

“It was hard to follow, they were very tired voices,” she admits, her pride flaming along the back of her neck. Tom gives her a knowing look. “How was your exam?”

“Simple.” His smirk is undeniable, and Florence has to resist slapping the expression off of his features. It does not help that he looks unbearably handsome, that his magic is radiating off of him in slow, easy waves like some form of Amortentia meant only for her.

“Dad’s said that I can stay in the manor out in Somerset for the next few weeks if I want,” Florence tells Tom, her hand diving into her robe pocket where it closes around the letter from Clifford. “He’s back home for the next month helping the Blounts with their seeding.”

“Hmm,” Tom comments noncommittally.

“ _But_ ,” Florence continues, her hand around his torso tightening. “It seems like the perfect time for me to come inspect your new flat. Make sure that you haven’t decorated it drastically macabre.”

“I have excellent taste, Florence.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, considering your taste implies myself,” she smirks, and even Tom for all of his austerity cannot stop the dilation in his pupils, the rush of color to his cheeks.

“You are very bold,” he whispers, and his voice has dropped to a timbre so deep she can feel it in her veins, her skin suddenly too warm with his insinuation.

“I’ve already signed up for the Hogwarts express, Tom,” she says at last. “I’m going with you whether you’d like for me too or not.”

“I did not say that I did not want you there,” he murmurs, and his gaze is sharp as a knife, like facets of crystal that reflect the sun. His mouth opens again, but they are both broken away from the moment by the brash tones of Pyrrhus Avery yelling across the grounds.

“Riddle, Allman, you’ll never believe it,” he shouts, and Florence laughs at the way Tom’s expression grows murderous at the interruption. “ _Grindelwald has been captured!!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this a happy chapter? Was this a sad chapter? Honestly a little bit of both. There is still so much between them they need to work out, but don't worry, I promise it will come up:) Also, next chapter is the last one at Hogwarts. I cannot believe we made it through to the end of seventh year, but we did!!! Thank you so much for all of your support you lovely humans you!!!!
> 
> ALSO.... the playlist:) I have made it, and I have a fun little graphic that I'm dying to share with you all, but it's loosely chronological and I really don't want to spoil where this is going in the end so instead I'm going to copy and past the first half of the playlist here. I wanted to be able to share a Spotify link with you guys, but I use my friend's Spotify since I don't have my own, and I didn't feel comfortable sharing a link to her account. If anyone wants to make a playlist that has sharing capabilities, I'd love that, but of course no pressure. If you do make one, feel free to send me the link and I'll put it in my next chapter updates!! Hope some of you listen and enjoy - again this only coincides with everything up till this point. All of the classical music pieces are actually songs referenced in Limited, with the Chopin being what Tom and Florence danced too at Samhain, Dvorak the symphony they attended, and Moonlight Serenade what they danced too at her debut. The rest of it is more mood pieces, but if you have questions about why I chose certain songs just lMK!!!:)
> 
> Ok ok that was such a long AN. You guys are seriously the best ever I am the luckiest author!!
> 
> 1\. Rainbow Connection - Pomplamoose  
> 2\. Softly - Clairo  
> 3\. Can't Help Falling in Love - Beck  
> 4\. Cringe (Stripped) - Matt Maeson  
> 5\. Watlz in A Minor, Op. Posth., B. 150 - Frédéric Chopin  
> 6\. Used to be Lonely - Whitney  
> 7\. Pluto Projector - Rex Orange County   
> 8\. Symphony No. 9 in E Minor, Op. 95 "From the New World" : II. Largo - Antonín Dvorák   
> 9\. Fools Rush In - Jo Stafford   
> 10\. I've Got You Under My Skin - Frank Sinatra   
> 11\. Don't Leave Me Lonely (ft. James Francies), Acoustic Version - Mark Ronson, Yebba   
> 12\. Moonlight Serenade - Glenn Miller   
> 13\. Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic - Sleeping At Last


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *skips into the room*
> 
> *throws chapter onto the table*
> 
> *runs out*
> 
> Thank you everyone! You guys make my world go round, I hope you enjoy:)

**Chapter 40**

“But you can't make people listen. They have to come round in their own time, wondering what happened and why the world blew up around them. It can't last.”   
― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

Tom paces before the entrance to the second floor girls lavatory much in the same manner that he had paced at the end of Florence’s bed the first night he had truly taken her – quick steps, silent footfalls, and a slight pounding in his brain that he could not define.

He thinks about that night often, with every waking breath it seems. The way her body had curved into his touch, her hair fanned across the bed, her warmth had pulled him in until he forgot where her body ended and his began. Clifford Allman had threatened to take her away from him, and Florence had instead offered herself body and soul as a gift at Tom’s alter. It had been magic elemental and arcane and it had turned him into an insatiable monster subject only to desires stronger than anything before. He wanted her with every beat, when he woke – hard and panting, Florence’s name on his lips – and when he went to sleep, at lunch when he longed to push her against the wall in a broom cupboard, and in Ancient Runes when the tossing of her hair across her shoulder would sent a whiff of coffee his way that drove him nearly to madness. She laughed when he pulled her from the library into disused classrooms, his fingers and tongue rediscovering every line of her body, and she burned like an ember when he threw her onto his bed, peeling layers of clothes from her body like a priest at an offering. There would never be enough of her to fill the hole within him, but he would try to fill it nonetheless.

Tom glances at his watch again, attempting to redirect his thoughts once more from their usual wicked musings. _She’s late_ he notes, but Florence was not known for her promptness, and it was the middle of the night. The chance that she had been waylaid by Peeves or a professor prowling the halls was high.

It is a risk, he knows, to show Florence. But in two days they will be leaving Hogwarts and he will never again have the opportunity – at least not until he had taken control of the wizarding world – to stand before his birthright and claim it, to show Florence what and who he truly is: a sorcerer more worthy than any within Hogwarts’ halls. _She must be acclimated_ he thinks, rehearsing again the story he has formulated to tell Florence. Enough of the truth that any research on her part will only serve to reinforce his tale, enough lies to keep her from running away in terror. _Damn_ Florence’s misguided love of muggles – her foolish bid to prove that magic was magic, regardless of who carried it. He would prove to her she was wrong, he _would_ change her mind, but it would be slow, and it will begin here with declaring his significance.

As he waits, Tom considers too Clifford Allman’s warnings and threats. He’d been incensed in the moment, but Florence had grounded him as she always did – with her words, with dancing, with the warmth between her legs. He’d left her bed that night and realized that Clifford Allman had played all of his cards and left Tom to maneuver around them. _Kind people think that all humans play by the same rules, but I am not human, and there are no systems which guide me_ Tom knew. He was reframing the world itself, and Clifford thought to hold him by outdated policies of the past, the menial argument of _right and wrong_.

True, he’d slowed Tom’s plans perhaps. He would be forced to wait to make another Horcrux until _after_ he and Florence were married, but once his ring was upon her finger, Tom could not be dissuaded nor stopped. And at that point, Clifford would be unable to take his daughter back. Tom’s grin was savage.

A shuffling sound at the end of the hall alerts Tom that Florence has arrived. His face spreads into a smirk when he sees that she is carrying her shoes in her hand, her bare feet moving across the stones without a sound in an untraditional, yet no less successful, method of sound suppression. Tom takes her hand and pulls her into the lavatory, glancing around for a moment for Myrtle, before turning and pressing Florence against the stall closest to them. His lips find her neck, warm and beating with the pulse his entire life has matched its rhythm too, unable to resist even for a moment.

“Tom,” she says, and he feels himself smile against her when his name comes out as more of a moan than any recognizable word in one of the seven languages Florence speaks. “If you wanted to take me in every bathroom in the castle, you didn’t have to wake me up in the middle of the night to finish the list.”

“I have other things planned for you this evening,” Tom says, pulling his lips away from her skin, leaving his hips pressing against hers so that she can feel every line of his body, the hardness there. “But do not make offers you do not intend to keep,” he hisses as an afterthought, giving in to himself once more as he takes her lips this time, his fingers carding through her hair. For a moment he considers having her here – against the putrid green wall of the girls lavatory – giving in to the monster roaring in his chest to claim what is rightfully his, and Florence _is_ his, but he resists. It would not do well to be distracted from the true mission of this night, and there were plenty of hours to follow…

“I have something to show you,” Tom says, at last locating the power within himself to sever the magic of touching her. He straightens his robes while Florence slides on her shoes.

“In the restroom?”

“Obviously,” he sneers, but it does not smother the spike in his heartbeat. In only a moment she will know who he is – who he descends from – and Florence will have to make a choice to accept or deny it. To accept or deny _him_. Of course, there isn’t _really_ a choice. He won’t truly let her walk away, but somewhere inside of him, the childish part of his brain that had longed for a family he’d never had, to be accepted with open arms into the wizarding world, hopes that Florence Allman who’d treated him like everyone else from the start will simply accept this too. The thought seems too good to be true.

“Another secret of the castle?” She asks.

“Intuitive.”

“What is it this time? A secret bathhouse behind the mirror – or a perhaps an old potions store room with all sorts of illicit concoctions?”

“You aren’t as funny as you believe yourself to be, Florence,” Tom quips, but he cannot fight the smile that spreads across his face in response to the one that is mirrored upon Florence’s. Like so much that involves her, it is a gut reaction, intuition of the most base authority.

“I like it when you smile,” Florence adds abruptly, her fingers ghosting over his lips like they are ancient pieces of parchment that might crumble at the slightest touch. It is the type of honest, genuine kindness that confounds Tom the most because he does not understand the motive for sharing something like that. Only that it seems to make her happy, being honest with him, and he cannot fathom why. At once the smile falls from his face, and laughter bubbles from Florence – a music Tom is convinced he was designed to consume.

“Who am I tonight?” He demands, annoyed by her ability to unbalance him with a simple comment.

“Sneaking about the castle in the middle of the night? Showing me a mysterious secret? You have to be Odysseus, but of course that could change depending upon what you show me,” Florence muses, and again that stupid smile of his spreads across his face because _fuck_ he loves that he has something so asinine to share with another, with _her_ , a code that only they can understand.

“Come,” he orders, offering Florence his hand, unable to stall any longer. Her palm is warm in his own, and he pulls her to stand before the sink tap in the center of the room. Tom’s eyes find at once the small snake carved into the faucet, too caught up in the moment to notice Florence’s arms wrap around his stomach, her face pressed against his chest.

 _“Open_ ,” he hisses, and Florence’s arms tighten around his waist because she has never heard him speak parseltongue before. He wonders if she knows what it is, if the language bears the same taboo in America. Tom tries to ignore the way his pulse is running away from his control, the beating of his heart within his ribs most likely loud and panicked to Florence’s ear against his sternum.

The opening reveals itself after a moment, a cavernous mouth waiting to take them in, inviting them inside her depths. Tom steps to the edge, pulling Florence with him so that the wash of musty, decaying air brushes over them.

“What is this,” Florence whispers, and her voice has a strange ring that was not there before. Tom’s hand digs into her side.

“I will explain when we get there, to say it now would not do it justice.”

“We’re going _in_ there?” She deadpans.

“Of course, don’t you trust me?”

“I’m beginning to question now whether I should,” Florence laughs weakly – a sound that does nothing to cover up the shaking in her body. “But I am assuming this is important since you’ve woken me up in the middle of the night?”

Tom kisses her as an answer. Kisses her because he can and he wants to and surely he does not need any more reason than that.

“ _Trust me_ ,” he whispers against her lips, and when she murmurs _okay_ Tom pulls her against him and steps into the darkness, letting the tunnel consume them both.

Florence screams the entire way down, her face pressed against his chest as if she would like nothing more than to cease to exist. The wind burns his eyes, her hair stinging his skin, and yet Tom knows every curve of this channel like he had carved them himself. Maybe he had, some part of his soul that was Slytherin’s itself remembering the magic that was kept here.

Tom casts a wandless levitation charm as they fire from the end of the tunnel, a moment of weightlessness before their feet settle upon the ground. In his grasp Florence is gasping for breath, her body shaking like a leaf in the wind. It is a fear that he relished instilling in his followers the first time he sent them down into the Chamber, but feeling the typically outspoken Florence quailing in his arms, Tom’s brain feels oddly subdued.

“I have you, it’s okay, Florence,” he whispers into her hair, one hand cupping the back of her head. Finally beneath the castle, the excitement, the thrill he associates with this place has risen within him. Impatient to show her more, Tom tugs on Florence’s hair so that her face is revealed to him, pressing his lips to hers again – harder than before, insistent as his tongue slides into her mouth. At once she responds, and Tom must contain the singing in his ego as he thinks that only his person could calm her in such a way.

“That,” Florence pants when they pull away. “Was terrible.”

“The first time is always unsettling, but it is only the unknown.”

“You’re mad,” she says, but there is a hint of a smile upon her features that he can see in the wandlight, and Tom knows she is calming.

“This way,” he encourages, taking her hand and pulling her after him through the cavern.

It is dark in the cave, but like the tunnel, Tom knows this too like the back of his hand, like the back of _Florence’s_ hand. They walk in silence, and he can feel her eyes upon him every few steps. Questioning, amazed, terrified. Again he wishes he could peel back the layers of her mind, discover what thoughts were dancing across her brain. _Has she begun to suspect? Does she remember that conversation with Slughorn so long ago?_ Tom had ordered his followers to never mention the Chamber, even in private. It would not do well for Florence to hear of what had happened beyond what he could control, but there was no controlling everyone in the castle. At least not yet…

Finally, after what feels like nearly half an hour’s worth of walking the round, snake infested door comes into sight. Florence’s hand twitches in his, but she does not pull away to his relief. _Another challenge dealt with, and onto the last._ His excitement had reached a paramount level, and now he does not linger, using the only other language native to him to demand the door to open. There is a creaking of hinges long ago rusted, and then the Chamber is bared to him, lit in eerie green light that reminds him of the Slytherin common room, his prestige revealed at last.

“What is this?” Florence asks as Tom tugs her forward, and he can hear it now, the coldness in her voice that makes him see red for the briefest of moments. Her gaze is fixed upon the carved effigy of his forefather at the end of the hall, brow drawn, mouth slightly ajar. Is it madness to think that she looks beautiful, even now when she is questioning him? They move slowly down the stairs, and Tom again wraps his arm around Florence so that she will not be able to tear herself away.

“This, Florence, is the Chamber of Secrets.”

The words are like honey upon his tongue, sweeter still because she is here and witness to the sheer magnificence, the wonder of his heritage. She is as stiff as granite beneath his touch, and now he does not need to see into her mind to know that she is remembering at last the words of their daft potions professor.

“Slughorn said you caught the perpetrator – the person who had opened the Chamber.” Florence’s voice is too still, too subdued for his liking.

“I did,” he agrees.

“I think,” she said quietly, and he does not like the way she is now, indifferent to his presence, to the magic of this place. “I would like to know more of that story.”

She is not accusing him, not yet, but he can see the calculations behind her eyes, rethinking their every interaction – his hatred of muggles, his supposed award, his ability to open this room, Tom’s undeniable presence at the top of the Slytherin hierarchy. He smiles at the face of Salazar Slytherin, moss ridden and grotesque, because this is what he has planned for, and beautiful, remarkable Florence Allman who’d promised to follow him to the ends of the Earth was going to fall into his trap. The thought makes him giddy, far giddier than the childish thought of ruining her he’d considered long ago. He wanted to ensnare her, to lead her so far into the maze that was his empire that she could never find her way out again.

“Since I arrived at Hogwarts,” Tom begins, the words like polished silver from his tongue. “I have always felt the pull to this place, much in the same way that the magics around you call to your spirit, the Chamber called to me.”

“Did you know what it was?” Florence asks, and still she will not look at him. He wants to grab her face and return her gaze to him. He wants to fuck her into the floor.

“Not in the beginning,” he admits. “It was like an itch I could not scratch, and many of Hogwarts’ secret passages became known to me as I attempted to discover what was calling to my person.”

“How did you discover it then?”

“Through my family.” Tom’s chest constricts for the briefest moment, and then he forces himself to continue. “My middle name – Marvolo – it was my grandfather’s. His daughter, Merope Gaunt was my mother, and through her I am the last living descendant of Salazar Slytherin. With this understanding, I was better able to follow the trail, and around my second year, I discovered this place – the halls of my forefathers.”

Tom fights to keep his voice in line, to stop the flame of pride that threatens to burst from his lungs, because he knows that her belief in him is contingent upon what comes next. Teetering on the edge of a precipice, he continues.

“In my fifth year, students began to be attacked, each bearing the marks of a magical creature.” He is thankful that Florence detests Magical Creatures – she will not fact check this detail to discover what kinds of marks, even though he knows that she will look up his family genealogy. She is obsessed with her own family, it is not hard to assume that she will make his a concern of hers as well. “People were terrified, muggle-borns were being carted off to the Hospital Wing at an alarming rate, and rumors of the Chamber of Secrets began to pop up because there were no other explanations.”

“And you had nothing to do with these attacks?” It is a characteristically brash question, and Tom is distracted momentarily by the turn of her head to his, her umber eyes harder than Clifford Allman’s have ever been, tearing him apart piece by piece to search for lies. Tom must suppress his rage, reign in the magic that threatens to explode from within him at her insinuation – not because she is wrong, but because he wants to claim his actions, he wants to reveal himself to her, but he cannot. _Not yet._

“No, I did not. I alone knew that whatever creature was attacking students could _not_ be from the Chamber, because I alone knew where it was located. I spent much of my time in here studying, escaping from some of the harsher realities of life in Slytherin, and I have never seen another person in here. That is, until tonight with you.”

“I don’t understand,” Florence grounds out, and she turns once more to face the stone carving of Slytherin himself. Tom notices, however, that her cheeks have colored slightly – that she is _touched_ by the thought that she is the only person he has brought to this place. It is a lie of course, but Tom feels a rush of satisfaction nonetheless that his gesture could mean so much to her.

“I could not step forward and explain that it was not Slytherin’s monster, because to reveal myself as Slytherin’s heir while false rumors of Slytherin’s beast being unleashed would place the blame upon me. I set out to discover the beast myself, determined to cleanse the name and honor of my legacy, and at last discovered during Prefect rounds that the ridiculous half-oaf Hagrid had been raising an Acromantula in the castle – a giant spider that he could not keep contained, and which at times was running rampant through the corridors.”

“But why would Hagrid attack muggle-borns? He seems nice enough,” Florence asks. Tom lets out an imperceptible sigh, studying the stiff lines of her back which refuse to ease.

“Because he is a half-giant, Florence,” Tom murmured, at last giving in to the urge to touch her, his hand cupping her cheek to pull her gaze back to his. “Because he wanted to establish someone lower on the social hierarchy than himself.”

Silence falls between them as she digests his words, and now Tom knows it is up to Florence to believe him, his part being played. It had been unfortunate that she’d met the half-breed giant a few days before, but Tom could only hope that Florence had not noticed that he was a bumbling fool, incapable of planning mass attacks on students. _But then again_ Tom thinks, fighting the smirk that tugs at his lips _it is my word against his, and she loves me_. Time seems to stretch on as Florence searches his face, picking apart his story in her mind, weighing whether to trust poor, orphan Tom Riddle whom she loved, who only wished to protected what little family legacy he possessed, or the campus groundsmen who she’d met only once. In the end the decision is easy – Tom had intended it to be, to weaponize her feelings for him against her, because he knew Florence and he knew she would want to believe him.

“That’s terrible,” Florence mutters at last.

And then he sees it, the acceptance, the nearly imperceptible loosening in her gaze as his words sink in, as his tale becomes a part of her living reality. _She believes me_. Florence looked down upon Britain for many things – because she was American, because it was the home of magic she struggled to master, because they ridiculed her for speaking her mind with such ease. Of course she would latch onto any lie that confirmed the magical caste system she so detested, of course she would choose to believe that Tom was innocent. Because she – Florence Allman, the ultimate consumer – wanted to, and what she wanted she got. Tom nods at her.

“Yes. It is terrible,” he agrees, his thumb running across her cheek. “But he was expelled, his wand was snapped, and the name of Salazar Slytherin was once more returned to its rightful place of honor.”

“Do people know you are his heir?” She asks, leaning against his side in what he considers a subconscious form of submission.

“I have been careful with whom I entrust the truth,” Tom admits. “It is a delicate fact, and one that I do not want to cause me any future troubles despite the wonder that it is, the meaning it holds to me.”

“That’s dreadfully sad,” Florence says after a moment, her arms finding their usual hold around him. “To attack others because of the misery of your own station, your own upbringing in life. Jealousy to the point of madness.”

Tom does not trust himself to speak, certain that any half misstep could turn the tides against him. It is a sign of Florence’s own affluence that she cannot understand the cloying fear of poverty, the sickening nausea the _Cruciartus_ curse leaves throughout your system. Tom had been subject to it over and over again from his fellow snakes until he had at last discovered the chamber. Now _he_ was the one who watched with pleasure as they writhed on the ground, now he was the one in possession of a powerful enchantress more rich and affluent than any of the sacred twenty-eight.

“Will you tell me more about your ancestors? I’d like to know more,” she asks, and Tom feels himself break out into a smile. Taking her hand, he pulls her down the walkway towards the statue of Slytherin, his words echoing upon the stone ceiling as he reveals to her his majesty, how _worthy_ he will be to one day stand before the Wizarding World as its ruler. Worthiness had been in his blood since before he was born, even before pathetic Merope Gaunt had decided to spread her legs and rape a filthy muggle. He was Slytherin’s legacy. Florence stares at him with wonder as he speaks, and by the time they reach the pool at the end, they have both stopped talking, their lips intent upon other things.

Tom never once regrets omitting part of the truth as he winds himself around Florence’s figure, lips pressed against hers in a dance they have come to master. He would tell her someday, and when he did he was sure Florence would praise him for it. The attacks, Myrtle Warren’s death – they had all be inconsequential to the focus of his story: that he was important, that his legacy was as strong as any of the purebloods who’d wanted to ridicule him, overriding the years of misery in an orphanage that had never understood him.

.

.

.

Sometimes when Tom watches Florence, he wonders if he would be like her had he been raised under the same circumstances. Their ride upon the Hogwarts Express is defined by one exclamation after the next, joyful musings of a girl who is unaccustomed to such plebian methods of travel like trains or various forms of public transit. Tom cannot share her amazement – he is leaving behind him the closest thing to a home he has ever known, his emotion at the separation from Hogwarts what he assumes Florence must feel when she leaves her family estate – although when it comes to feelings, Tom is never sure.

Yet Tom thinks that even _had_ he been raised in the bosom of pureblooded riches, he would never be as swept away in the moment by moment levels of pleasure or pain the way Florence is. He is too focused on the future, too calculating to ride the undulating emotions that seem to fluctuate within Florence. Only an hour ago she’d sobbed while holding Radella, wishing her a heartfelt goodbye despite the fact that Radella would be visiting the Allman estate in a few months, and now she was curled into his side, teasing Leonidas and Pyrrhus as if her own personal sun shone above her. Tom had remained silent for most of the ride, content to mull over his final few days at Hogwarts, considering his imminent plans which would begin after Florence left for America.

“Now that you’re a working farm-hand, Allman,” Pyrrhus says, crossing one leg over the other with his typical athletic confidence. “Should I be worried about you showing up to my wedding covered in mud?”

“I’d imagine Lizzie has plans to have her army of house elves scrub every inch of my skin before I’m within a hundred yards of the ceremony space,” Florence drawls, and Tom smirks because he notices that her gaze is fixed on the countryside rushing past them, as riveted by the rolling hills as she is by magic. He’ll never understand her obsession with Herbology, with plants in general, which to Tom is an extremely limited style of magic, but he finds it endearing on some small level that she is so open with her incredulity.

“And you’re staying for the engagement party?” He asks.

“Yes, I’ve already had Tom’s dancing shoes sent to the smith’s to be polished. He’s probably regretting dating me since I’ll force him to go,” she replies, turning from the window to face him, her smile gentle and easy and meant only for him despite the crowd. _Dating._ They’d never discussed that word, but he’d not begrudged the use of it because it was just another sign of his ownership, even if it meant that she owned some part of him in return. He’d lost count of the number of threads that tied them together. He wanted a thousand more.

“Florence is under the impression that I am her date instead of the other way around.”

“Well, _I’m_ the one in the wedding,” she counters.

“Only because I turned Pyrrhus’ offer down.”

Tom had been asked – of course he had – but he didn’t need to stand beside the pureblooded prince at the alter to prove his worth to the rest of society. It was better to be in the shadows, to let his mystery move around him, to be a handsome face with indistiquishable qualities and magical abilities that would strike fear into anyone thinking to challenge him. Agreeing to be in a wedding put him front and center, open to judgement. Tom would never make himself that available to attck. It would be beneficial, however, to have Florence standing before the assembly, radiant and beautiful, to be desired by every man there only to find Tom upon the dance floor, adoration showing in her eyes. They would wonder what she saw in him, they would want to discover for themselves, and she would be the honey that led him into his snare.

“I must say, Allman, that I’m a bit offended that Lizzie has been invited to your estate again this summer while Leo and I’s invitations seem to have gone missing,” Pyrrhus chimes, the conversation turning away from his upcoming nuptials.

“I’m sure you will be busy working at the ministry,” Tom murmurs coolly before either Leonidas or Florence can respond. His hand twitches around Florence’s shoulder. He does not want his followers upon Florence’s estate – he wants it to be a place entirely for he and her, separate from the British hierarchy he was moving to dominate, a refuge that they shared. Burke and Greengrass, although adjacent to his Knights, were not formal members. He could not as of now control their comings and goings, but he did not like the idea of Florence’s world opening to others. He wanted to be the sole planet within her orbit.

“Of course,” Pyrrhus hastily amends, his head twitching downward in only the slightest hint at a bow, a motion Florence would miss but which was abundantly clear to himself and Lestrange.

“Well, if you do find time, my door is always open,” Florence adds without missing a beat, always kind, always generous without reason. Tom loathes that it is not for his sake, and without thinking, he pinches her jaw between his fingers and moves her lips to his before she can make any further offers. Across from them, Lestrange and Avery tactfully look away.

.

.

.

Tom’s apartment is very Victorian – expensive wallpapers, dark cabinetry, and thick drapes. He has not laid eyes upon it having had Lestrange’s family go to the trouble of purchasing it on his behalf, signing over the deed to him without question just as they had the necklace he’d given to Florence, but he finds it pleasantly quiet with a small personal library off of the master suite already filled to the brim with books he cannot wait to get his hands on.

“It’s very masculine, isn’t it,” Florence chimes, turning upon the marble floor in the foyer, her chestnut eyes tracing the crown molding along the ceiling. Tom watches her, admiring the figure she cuts in a simple white traveling dress, caramel curls glistening in the lamplight. It’s an affecting image, one that he knows with absolutely certainty he would like to come back to every day.

“You sound surprised,” he muses, tapping both of their trunks and returning them to their normal size before vanishing them to his rooms where their clothes will hang themselves. He does not know if Florence plans on spending every night here, but there is no other option.

“Not surprised, just observing.”

“I can see you redecorating in your mind already,” Tom accuses, but he feels himself break into that ridiculous smile that only appears when she is close. He doesn’t care if she redecorates, he has no intention of living in this flat except for those times when she is here visiting. _Let her mark the space as her own_ he thinks, soon enough they will share everything, even a name. What a shame that it was a muggle name, but even that would be changing with time, he need only remain patient.

Tom follows her as she moves through the rooms of his apartment, a few steps behind so that he can watch the way her face lights up at every new trinket or painting. She points to various pieces, exclaiming over their beauty or taste, at other times highlighting the perfect place for a potted plant or a photograph.

“I have photos of us from my debut. I’ll have some framed for you,” she says, her hands clasped behind her back as she rounds the sofa in one of the parlors. Tom smirks, her nonchalant attitude unable to hide the truth that she wants every person who passes through his door to know he is hers.

Finally they reach the main sitting room, a magnificent black marble fireplace like an open maw waiting to be lit. Above the cavern is a portrait of a bald, pinched looking man with black eyes and a pointed beard. Tom knows who it is without having to read the plaque, and he comes to a halt in surprise. _Lestrange must be rewarded for his loyalty_ Tom considers, a smirk spreading across his face. He wonders who Leonidas extorted to get his hands upon one of the few portraits of Salazar Slytherin that remained.

“Well,” Florence says as she stops before the fireplace. “You certainly didn’t get your looks from him, for which I am quite thankful.”

Slytherin frowns at her as Tom laughs, moving to stand behind her so that he can set his hands upon her waist.

“It is rather rude of you to insult my ancestor, Florence,” he growls into her ear, and he can feel the heat that radiates off her, the ripple in his magic as hers becomes frantic with arousal. He will never get tired of the physical control he can exert over her, so different from everyone else, so much more fulfilling because it is giving willingly. Tom’s lips find her shoulder.

“Show me the master suite?” She whispers, but they never make it, instead falling to the floor in a flurry of limbs and clothes, christening the apartment as theirs, as something they will build together. She laughs, high and clear when he pins her to the carpet, and there is a swelling in his throat that he cannot dispel because he feels in this moment that everything is attainable – his dreams, unlimited power, _Florence_. 

_The first block within my empire_. _The beginning of infinity._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Tom is a sneaky little liar. I'm sure Florence won't be upset if she ever finds out... Also, we're done with Hogwarts - I can't believe we've made it this far!!
> 
> I wonder if this reveal will surprise you, or if some of you have seen it coming! Your comments have been fascinating and so so appreciated, and I hope that if anything this was at least interesting to read:) Thank you as always for your incredible support, dear readers. Please stay safe wherever you are!


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for all of your responses last chapter:) I hope you don't feel it was too OOC for Florence. I think that when you love someone, you are not only blinded to some of their faults but you choose only to see the best in them, and for me that is the crux of it with Florence. She sees in Tom only what she wants to see - BUT if you feel that wasn't well written or it didn't come across that way, by all means you are entitled to your opinion:) I seriously love how invested all of you readers are and I love hearing your thoughts/opinions!!
> 
> First chapter out of Hogwarts. I've been waiting so long to reach this point, and I think there will probably be a bit over 50 chapters now that I'm sitting and writing it all down, so we still have a ways to go. Thank you for your endless support, for sticking with this story, and for genuinely being the best. Stay safe everyone!

**Chapter 41**

“He was another knife I could feel it. A different sort, but a knife still. I did not care. I thought: give me the blade. Some things are worth spilling blood for.”   
― Madeline Miller, Circe

Tom’s apartment doesn’t have enough windows Florence decides once she is able to peel herself away from his bed long enough to truly finish exploring it – something that takes admittedly longer than she first thought because Tom seems to be somewhat unhinged, his desires surfacing to the forefront now that he is no longer bound by the whims of Hogwarts and his role as Head Boy. She tugs on one of his discarded shirts, buttoning it haphazardly as she slips from his room. Tom is in the shower, tendrils of steam issuing out from under the door, meaning that she has at least ten minutes head start before he comes looking, most likely to ravage her upon one of the myriad surfaces with his new quarters. The thought reminds her of the soreness in her gut before it settles into warm, ever present yearning. Perhaps she will hide, force him to hunt for her in his own home.

She had screamed bloody murder the first time they had entered the kitchen a few days prior to find a small house elf in a black linen cloth like a small toga. Her name was Pips – one of the Lestrange’s house elves Tom had told her once she’d regained her senses – and further questioning revealed that Leonidas had ordered her to stock his fridge and pantry once a week as well as see too Tom’s laundry and linens. It wasn’t the same as truly owning your own house elf, Florence reasoned, but it was a generous gesture on Leonidas’ behalf, one she hadn’t thought the somber boy capable of.

Florence ignores to the best of her ability the black eyes of Salazar Slytherin that watch her from his portrait. Florence attempts to avoid thinking about Slytherin at all, in fact. She’d known how important it was to Tom, she could remember the earnestness in every line of his face as he’d told her of what had transpired, how he’d tried to defend his family honor without wrongfully accusing himself. And yet, Florence could not wrap her head around the idea of the gentle, half-giant Hagrid wanting to attack others – not when he was responsible for caring for most of the creatures on the grounds. But then again, Florence likewise could not picture Tom _killing_ someone.

Well, maybe she _could_ picture it, but she didn’t want too.

And regardless of whether or not Tom had darker tendencies and a streak of bitterness a mile wide, she truly did not believe he would lie to her. Because whatever Tom might hide beneath the various masks he wore, she knew without question he cared for her. _I want whatever it is you are. I know that you are beautiful. I plan to carve your name into time itself._ He would not, she rationalized, lie to her if those things he murmured into her ear when no one else was listening were also true. And the Parseltongue had been proof enough that he was the heir of Slytherin, so why shouldn’t the rest of his story also be true? She didn't want to think about it, and so she didn't. 

Her self-guided tour takes her through the library, down a long corridor with several bedrooms leading off of it, and at last into a study. The desk is a behemoth structure, rectangular and hard, a deep mahogany reinforced by severe lines and bookshelves of a similar structure against the walls. Charcoal wallpaper makes the room feel smaller than it is, but it is the star pattern drawn onto the ceiling which draws Florence’s eyes up. It takes almost no effort at all to picture Tom working here – writing lesson plans, drafting letters to members of the Wizengamot, _penning me letters_. She takes a seat behind it without thinking, pulling open drawers without any care for his personal space because if she’s being honest with herself, she thinks this will all belong to her one day anyway – she may as well acquaint herself with it now.

She’s scribbling furiously across a piece of parchment when Tom finds her. Florence doesn’t notice him at first, Tom already having mastered the art of moving across the hardwood floors without a sound like a living shadow. Florence does not see, therefore, the innumerable emotions that pass across his face for the briefest moment as he leans against the doorframe, his hair wet, curls hanging low in their damp state like freshly tempered chocolate that is still hardening.

“I see you’ve helped yourself to my study before I’ve even had a chance to use it,” Tom murmurs at last. Florence jumps in her seat, a drop of ink dripping onto her letter as she looks up to see him approaching. Tailored slacks, a silk button down, and bare feet – coupled with a face carved from diamond itself, Florence feels her mind go blank, incapable of thinking in the presence of such beauty.

“What are you writing,” he prods, rounding the desk so that he can rest his hip against it, his delicate fingers reaching for the parchment to turn it towards him. Florence feels her face go red, and she swallows before continuing, praying that her voice is under control when she speaks.

“I already sent my mom one asking for pictures of us,” she chokes, and Tom’s eyes bore into her, the ever-present smirk plastering across his face in such a grotesque display of beauty that Florence’s thighs press together.

“And this one?”

“I’m writing to the local Botanist to purchase a few plants for your apartment. And then I’m sending in for new sheets – the ones on your bed are so scratchy.”

“Seeing as we ripped them the first time we slept in our bed, I can agree that new sheets would be in order,” he replies smoothly, but his eyes glint dangerously, forcing her blush to deepen. She knows she should ask him before she takes over his space, but there is an innately selfish part of her that wants to leave something behind when she is gone in the same way she’d wanted his tree planted upon her estate.

“You’re sinful,” Florence murmurs, but she gives him a smile anyways.

“Of course.”

Tom stands and cups her face, pulling it to his, kissing her as if it is the first time he has done so, not the hundredth this day alone. She kisses him back because of course she does, because she’d awoken this morning realizing that in three weeks they would be parted and she would not know when she could expect to see him next. It had been a bitter pill to swallow.

“You’ve misaligned the buttons on my shirt,” Tom murmurs when at last he releases her. Pulling her to her feet so that she stands between his legs, he sets to work disassembling the shirt, revealing her skin to the cold air of the apartment inch by inch. She must force herself to look away from his face, the wantonness etched into every plane there near intoxicating and Florence does not know how to meet it. How does he manage to make her feel so needed and yet so small all at once? When the last button is undone, Florence feels the pads of his fingers brush across her shoulders, sliding the garment from her frame and allowing it to pool upon the floor. His self-satisfied smirk is enough to burn her into the carpet.

“There, fixed,” he whispers, using his knuckles to trace the central plane of her stomach down to her navel, a shiver passing through her body that she cannot contain.

“I’m not going to walk around your apartment naked, Tom,” Florence chides, reaching to tug on the stray curl that has fallen across his brow. She’s taken to doing this recently, an act she’s grown fond of because without fail it always returns to his gaze to hers, a shot of calming serum whenever she needs it.

“Why not? I want you too,” he says, and his face is perfectly blank despite the flicker of starlight in his midnight eyes. She giggles despite the ridiculous nature of his request. It’s a compliment she supposes, that he desires her to the point of viewing clothing as unnecessary, a potential hindrance.

“People don’t just get whatever they want.”

“I do,” he counters with the kind of confidence he used to wield in the classroom. “I wanted you, and here you are.”

“I’m here because _I_ want to be here,” Florence says, her palms coming to rest on his upper thighs, nails digging into the sinew she found here. There is only the slightest inhalation of breath to show that he is affected by her nearness, but he maintains the perfect façade he’d mastered long before Florence met him. “But if you take your clothes off too, I’ll consider your request, at least for today.”

He’s already reached for the buttons of his shirt before she’s finished speaking.

.

.

.

Lizzie’s engagement party takes place on the back terrace of the Greengrass estate on a sunny afternoon in July. She, and therefore Tom, had both been forced to arrive early as a witness to the wedding, hair perfectly styled and pinned, her pale blue tea dress fluttering slightly in the breeze. Lizzie looked like something out of _Witch Weekly_ , her long blonde hair in a perfect set of curls, red lipstick a dramatic cut across her face that when she smiled, made her teeth all the more radiantly white.

“Florence, thank gods you’re here,” Lizzie called out the moment they were ushered through the front door. Lizzie took her hand at once, and Florence had only enough time to send Tom an apologetic smile before she was tugged away. “My mother has invited every no-good, nosy, busy-body pure-blooded woman from Britain and the Continent, and I’m about to rip my hair out.”

“I thought you liked being the center of attention,” Florence laughed. Lizzie gave her a stare that could wilt flowers.

“Not when all of wizarding society that actually _matters_ is about to be judging everything from my shoes to my shift.”

“Lizzie, you look like a magazine star, please stop fretting.”

“I do love when you compliment me, feel free to keep it up, Florence dear,” Lizzie teases, checking herself in the mirror. “How is Tom’s apartment,” she asks, their eyes meeting in the reflection with a knowing look. Florence at least has the decency to blush.

“Even more scandalous than you think,” she replies, tossing a stray ringlet over her shoulder in defiance. Lizzie rolls her eyes.

“If your mother finds out you’re sleeping with him before you’re engaged, she’ll have a heart attack.”

“Do me a favor and don’t tell her,” Florence says with a wry smile. “I forgot to ask, how’s Avery in the sack?” This time it’s Lizzie who blushes.

“Well, we’re not rabbits like you and Tom, but I’ve always been left perfectly satisfied.”

“You _really_ have a way with words, Liz,” Florence teases.

“Has Tom told you what he plans to do after your little honeymoon is over?” Elizabeth asks, taking Florence’s hand once more and leading her out onto the terrace and towards the bar where two glasses of Elven wine are waiting for them. “Pyrrhus told me he turned down a meeting with the head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.”

Florence fights to keep her face still as Lizzie speaks, but her words come as a surprise. She’d never truly seen Tom working for the Ministry, but something within her does ache to realize that there was a detail of his life he’d not seen fit to share with her. She knows at once this is a foolish thought considering it was mere weeks ago that he told her that he descended from Slytherin himself, a much larger fact that had shaped him in innumerable ways, but that omission was out of necessity. This one stings more for its simplicity, that he’d thought to tell others and not her.

“He’s got an interview with Dippet near the end of the month about a teaching position at Hogwarts,” Florence murmurs, her eyes grazing the gardens below. She spots nearly at once the bench where she and Tom had sat all those months ago, his hand held in hers, discussing the _Iliad_ and dancing beneath the moon.

“And if he doesn’t get the position?” Lizzie asks. Her voice is light, but Florence can read the tension in it from miles away.

“I know you hate speaking plainly, but what are you really asking, Liz?”

The blonde girl sighs.

“I just don’t seem Tom settling for something small, at least not in the long term, and I’m trying to see how you picture into grandiose plans on the other side of the globe.”

It’s a fair question delicately put, but it doesn’t stop the agony that seems to radiate outward from that space within her chest that Tom has come to occupy. She does not want to think about the hurdles they have yet to overcome, not when he has finally agreed to being a suitor and playing by the rules of Southern, Spectre tradition.

“And do you really think choosing me would be choosing a small life?” Florence hates how weak her voice sounds, how desperately she needs affirmation from Lizzie who is not one to give out white lies, even when they soothe. Lizzie turns, taking Florence’s hand in her own so that their eyes meet.

“Choosing you would be the smartest thing that boy could ever do, and don’t you ever think otherwise, Florence,” Lizzie says with such fierceness that Florence’s brows shoot up her brow, her mouth falling open slightly. “I just want you to be happy, and if that means asking you hard questions until his ring is on your finger, then so be it.”

“Speaking of rings,” Florence says, because she is close to tears and she doesn’t want to ruin her makeup or Lizzie’s special afternoon. “Show me what Pyrrhus picked out for you.”

They _ooh_ and _ah_ over the diamond for several minutes before both of their dates arrive to sweep them off in various directions. Florence is forced to smile through a long, arduous conversation with Hector Fawley who Tom seems determined to win over with every charm in the book, before having to repeat the act with whom she later discovers were most of the high ranking officials at the Ministry. Florence has no idea why he wants to talk to them considering his own disinterest in politics, but she’s not about to let him go, and so she allows herself to be toted around on his arm. With Tom there is always a compromise to be made.

“There is a band inside,” Tom finally murmurs when the dark haired Lestrange Senior, acting head of the Auror office, at last leaves them in peace.

“If that was you asking me to dance, you can try again,” Florence snaps, attempting a scathing look that earns her nothing more than a raised brow.

“Would you prefer to find a seat?” He asks, his voice musing as if speaking to a child.

“No,” Florence sighs, some of her ire fading. “I’m just tired of sharing you with all the old patriarchs of the Ministry. I’d love to dance.”

Tom’s smile is luminous, his hand strong within her grasp as he pulls her through the doors and once more into the ballroom where they had first held each other, swept away by a different tune at a different time, but the magic is as present today as it was then. By now they fit together without thinking, her hand upon his shoulder, his pressed against her waist, their movements like a rhythm they’d been born to perform. Florence wonders if other people feel so completed when they dance, or if this is yet another example of something only they can share, a magic with no name.

“I still think of it,” Tom whispers into her ear when the second waltz begins, a slightly too upbeat tune for Florence’s liking, but content to remain in Tom’s grasp nonetheless. “Of Samhain. I kept those hairpins I took from your hair.”

“Do you plan on giving them back?”

“Never,” he murmurs, and Florence shivers at the rumbling in his throat.

“Thief,” she accuses.

“If you are mine, then they are mine as well.”

The music changes tempo and they switch arms, Tom steering her off in the other direction, swirling counterclockwise across the floor.

“Stay in England,” Tom mutters abruptly. “Don’t go back to Georgia. Stay with me.”

His hand tightens around her own, and Florence feels a lump begin to swell in her throat.

“What on earth would I do here, Tom?” Florence says through a pitiful laugh because his words seemed to have pierced her side, agony weeping from the wound he’s just invoked. “I can’t just be your bedwarmer, as much as I have enjoyed the position over the past days.”

“You could,” he counters, his jaw tensing as he glares across the dancefloor like it is the band’s fault that she will be returning to America so soon. “Or you could ask Yarrow to tutor you for your Herbology Mastery, or I could get you a job at the Ministry. Anything you would want now or in the future I can provide, there is no reason to go.”

Florence doesn’t ask where he will get the money, nor how he can assure her a position at the premier office in the country. She is too fixated upon his need, the words which seem to cut her to the bone.

“You know I’m not ready to give up my land, my home. There is still so much more of myself that I want to discover.”

“I could help you, look at what you have learned by my side. Who could teach you what I have? Who could push you in the same way?” She wants to tell him to lower his voice, to take him into a secluded corner and kiss him. Florence hates the hardness in his gaze, the snapping tendons in his neck that tell her he is fighting off anger. _How can a boy who never knew family know what it means to leave yours behind?_ Florence understands there are no words that can make him comprehend.

“You would not want me here if I was a dull housewife, sitting around waiting for you to come home, and I don’t want a Herbology Mastery when I can instead work the land of my forefathers.”

“As if I would leave you at the apartment as a housewife. Where I go, you would follow,” Tom sneers. Florence’s heart clenches.

“You just said you’d find me a job, but now I’m to tag along after you? I’m not a dog, Tom.”

“Don’t make me beg, Florence. I do not beg anyone, not even you.” And he sounds truly desperate now and her eyes are welling with tears and she doesn’t want to say no but she must because she’s only seventeen, and even for long-lived witches and wizards that is a very young age to commit to one future, to leave everything she has ever known behind.

“You say you would want me like that, but you wouldn’t. I’d be moody and testy without a yard to run in and plants to sing too and some larger purpose to fill the hours you’re not there.”

“You have no comprehension of what I do and do not desire,” he hisses, his fingers lacing through with hers, lips coming to her temple so that they are really only swaying now, not dancing. “I crave you all of the time, in every waking moment. Every time you walk away I fight the urge to spell you back to me, I threatened to break every bone in some fools body because he wanted to dance with you at your debut, and I would have too had he touched you. You think you have to go to Georgia to find yourself, but I don’t want you too. I have already said we can find some larger purpose for you, _I_ can be that larger purpose. ”

“And what of what I want?” Florence demands, unable to tamp down the anger within her. How dare he say all of this now, how dare he superimpose his wishes over hers, acting as if their impending separation was not something that also ate her alive? She had refused to play by Spectre tradition, she would not likewise be bound by the British insistence in housewifery no matter what he might say, waiting dutifully by the door for Tom to return home from a long day at work. He may say she could find work, but it hadn’t stopped him from dragging her around the party this afternoon like nothing more than an ornament upon his arm, an expectant future wife who would be beautiful and docile and everything he’d be raised to believe women were. She _refused_ to believe that was what he truly wanted. _I want the best version of you_ he had said, and somewhere within her iron-will Florence knew that the best version of herself was waiting across the ocean, yearning to delve deeper into the magic of Adsila and her people.

“You want me,” Tom cuts.

“Of course I do,” Florence hisses back. “But it does not mean you are all I want. I want to continue to learn, and I want to be my own person for a few years before I pick up my life and meld it with yours. I have never questioned that you want me, but I’ve never tried to stop you from wanting your own career – your own future. Afford me that same choice.”

Tom glares at her.

“You want land? You want greenhouses? Fine, I’ll buy you a fucking manor house with a thousand fucking gardens, Florence,” he spits, his beautiful face warping with anger in a way that makes her pulse freeze. “I’ll buy your fucking family the one next door if that’s what you want, just _stay_.”

She has ripped herself from his arms before he can register her anger, before he can stop her from pulling away. Florence feels her chest rising and falling rapidly, and she bites her lip to stop from screaming, from making a scene at her best friend’s engagement party.

“Do not _ever_ ,” Florence whispers, fighting every instinct within her to hit him. “Curse my family again, Tom. I will not stand for it, not now, not ever.”

She does not know where she finds the strength, but she moves across the dance floor with her head held high and her eyes dry, walking just how her mother taught her too. On her finger Tom’s ring burns, but not nearly to the extent his gaze does upon her back, watching with silent fury as she moves away from him, leaving him to ruminate in his self-inflicted agony.

The grand foyer with the black and white checked floor is empty, in the daylight a far cry from the scene where she’d looked down upon Tom in black dress robes and lost her mind, different from the moment she’d first touched him and understood what it meant for another’s magic to burn your own. She is on the top step when she hears steps behind her – men’s steps, and without looking she knows it is Tom because she can feel his magic in the air.

Unable to think straight, she reaches into her hidden pocket for her wand and twirls on the spot, disappearing into apparition before he can reach her, disappearing into the void where he cannot hurt her.

.

.

.

Tom finds her – he always finds her and how she does not know – sitting upon the front steps to her father’s manor home in Somerset staring listlessly at the trimmed hedges. She’d pulled the pins from her hair, releasing her curls in such strange configurations that she’d been forced to use a stream of air from her wand on to return it to her natural waves. Tom stands at the base of the stairs, most likely taking in the red around her eyes, the dried tracks of tears that had dried upon her cheeks, the slump of her shoulders. Idly she wonders how he learned to stand so still, both separate and a part of the scenery before her, a black presence amongst the green.

“Elizabeth asked where you had gone after the speeches,” he begins, and Florence notes he is using his head boy voice that she despises when it is turned against her. “I informed her you’d eaten something that had not settled well.”

“Thank you,” Florence replies stiffly, ignoring the curling of guilt in her stomach that she had abandoned her friend at her own party.

He falls silent again, and Florence’s mind wanders out across the horizon. She wraps her arms around her knees, ignoring the trickle of sweat that runs down her back in the mid afternoon sun, the burning sensation across the top of her head. Florence cannot decide if she is glad he is here or not, but there is no sending him away now.

“You know I want to stay,” Florence mutters at last, speaking more to her kneecaps than to Tom.

“Then why won’t you?”

“Because I also want to go home for a few more years and participate in my family legacy. You say that you would find something to fill my time here, but none of it would be the same. None of it could replicate hundreds of years of family magic that I want to be a part of.”

“We could build something new, you and I,” Tom suggests, his voice carefully neutral. Florence looks up at this to find his eyes driving into hers, his lips narrow as he attempts to control himself.

“Please do not make me choose between you and my family,” Florence murmurs. “Would you give up your ties to Slytherin for me?”

“Of course not,” he says, his brow wrinkling. “I would never have too.”

“Then do not ask me to give up my own ancestry. It is not fair, and I would never request it of you.”

“You’re not giving up your ancestry, Florence,” Tom murmurs, his foot coming to rest on the bottom step. “Your magic lives inside of you, it is wherever you are.”

“But it is strongest there, where the Great Spirit resides. How did it feel for you to leave the Chamber behind? I cannot image the pain of it – and I want that one last time, Tom, to dance where my forefathers danced and to sing with the trees they raised from the earth. I have already told you I will move to England for you, _please_ stop asking.”

He moves up the stairs to take a seat beside her, his arms weaving around her waist like vines, tight and constricting and warm. She leans against him without thinking, relaxing into the grip she has come to know better than any other.

“I am not accustomed to asking for things, Florence,” he whispers into her hair, the pads of his fingers sinking into her skin. “Nor am I accustomed to desiring the presence of another person. If I have offended you, it is only because you stir within me feelings I cannot name and I cannot comprehend which blinds me from rational thought.”

Florence knows it is the closest the will get to an apology, but the relief of his words does not erase her sadness. How many people had left him during his childhood – parents, other orphans, even Dumbledore who’d introduced him to magic and then abandoned him to this world. She loathed that he might consider her amongst that list, even though she planned to return, even though she wasn’t really leaving if her heart was to remain here within his possession.

When he reaches to kiss her, she gives it too him.

“Do you think other people feel this much? When they love another?” Florence asks, leaning her head against his shoulder. She does not see the shadow that flickers across his face at the mention of love, the emptiness within his eyes. Tom is bone and sinew and fire under her touch, and she cannot understand how she will be expected to live across an ocean from this – _from him_ – and yet she cannot bear the thought of not being a full part of her family history, at least not one last time. Tom makes a sound that is something akin to a laugh.

“Other people are simple, how could they?”

“If this is uncommon, then I believe it to be strong enough to overcoming time and distance,” Florence concludes with more surety than she feels. She takes one of his hands in her own, peeling back delicate fingers to reveal his palm, lines she has traced a thousand times which she knows better than her own.

“Let’s go back to the apartment.”

Florence nods, and without standing Tom apparates them into the foyer having structured the wards so that only he or Florence may do so.

.

.

.

Florence tries to cook dinner. Tries – because she has never cooked once in her life having been raised in a family with a small army of house elves, and immediately it is apparent that she has no idea how to handle herself in the kitchen. After their prior fight, Tom and Florence had come to a silent agreement to dine in that evening, as if by choosing to stay inside the apartment, they could stave off any further disagreements, their impending future. Choosing to stay in, however, did not magically present Florence with the ability to prepare a full meal.

She has already boiled over the water for the pasta and mutilated the tomatoes she is supposed to be cutting when Tom steps in. Florence watches with unabashed fascination as he moves deftly across the tile floor, his aristocratic features relaxed in what can only be described as a knowing look.

“Sit down Florence, you’re going to burn down my apartment,” Tom commands, wandlessly vanishing the boiling water from the pot. She scowls at him, her face burning, and he meets her gaze with a glowing look of his own that oozed with self-satisfaction. Florence seats herself at the countertop, content to watch him work.

What a strange sight – miraculous, powerful Tom Riddle with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows preparing dinner. The knife flies through the air, slicing the loaf of sourdough with decisive movements while he uses a finger to move the spoon stirring the pasta. A few stray curls have fallen across his face, his weight rocked upon one hip as he mans his position, like a captain behind the helm of a ship, completely at ease with his place. Before she can understand why, Florence is laughing, earning her a scathing look from Tom.

“Considering you are incapable of feeding us, I think you should be more thankful that there is yet another skill I am in possession of that you lack.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t really know why I’m laughing,” Florence manages to gasp out between fits of giggles. “I just never pictured you cooking.”

Tom leans over the cutting board where the knife is now neatly slicing a variety of vegetables that he will add to the skillet of browning garlic and butter.

“We had to cook in the orphanage,” Tom says, and even though he is facing away from her, Florence can read the tension in his spine like it is a line from the _Iliad_. The ache in her heart for him swells. “That is, of course, when there _was_ food. That incessant muggle war made things difficult before I was finally rid of the place.”

“But you are rid of it,” Florence murmurs even though she thinks he may be talking to himself at this point. “You never have to go back. You have your own home and you will have a career and a life…and me,” she tacks on at the end, blushing at the inclusion of herself and the insinuation that she is a prize. But was that such a bad thing in the end – to be his prize? It meant that she got him in return.

Tom glances over his shoulder again, his eyes seeking hers as if she is the meal he is preparing, and even though he smiles at her, Florence can see in the hardness of his gaze that he will never truly be rid of that orphanage. That what he suffered there – those injustices to his person and his pride would haunt him forever. There is a needle in her heart, a sharpness acute and deep that Florence cannot name but understands nonetheless, that she desperately wants to rebuild it for him, to erase that sadness, and yet the task seems insurmountable. How can one overcome the foundation of one’s life, those memories and experiences which have shaped every step? She feels again that bone deep feeling of never being enough, that she will never be able to be whatever he needs.

“And you,” he agrees, and Florence is on her feet before she can think, wrapping her arms around his waist and inserting herself under his arm so that he has no choice but to pull her close. In his grasp, in seems easier to remember herself, to recall that she loves him, that he has chosen to be here with her in this kitchen playing adult.

“Teach me to cook?”

“A potentially impossible task from what I have seen of your abilities, or lack thereof,” Tom says, pinching her chin between forefinger and thumb so that he can hover before her lips, tantalizing her with what she truly wants. She wants to be embarrassed by the way his magic brushing against hers makes her pulse flutter and her skin burn, but she has become so accustomed to the thrill of being in his arms she cannot even blush when his hips angle against hers and she can feel his desire there.

“You don’t believe in impossible,” Florence reminds him. “And you love telling me what to do.”

“Not that you listen.”

“ _Please_ teach me to cook?”

“I do like it when you beg,” he whispers, and his voice is a sin, his lips like the brushes of feathers across her cheekbone. Florence _does_ blush at this, at the insinuation there, at the teasing in his tone.

“ _Please_ , Tom,” Florence whispers, wrapping her hand around his wrist so that he will release her face, using her newfound freedom to kiss him the way she really wants to – none of the light, teasing motions that Tom wields to make her knees knock.

“What will I get in return?” He asks when they pull apart, one hand settling at the base of her neck while the other performs a variety of wandless magic that stirs the various foods in their pots and pans.

“How about I promise to write you once a week? When I get home,” Florence proposes.

“You would have already done that.” Tom says, and Florence frowns because of course he is right. “Something else.”

“Well I do have something for you, but I was going to give it to you as a parting gift…”

Tom’s stare is so hungry that she immediately revises her plans, releasing him to grab her wand and summon the package from their room. Beside her Tom casts a stasis charm over the food, catching the wrapped box from the air.

“Your summoning charms are vastly improved, Florence,” he says with a voice like thunder, his eyes finding hers for a moment before he begins to tear off the paper. There is a flush to his skin, a frantic pulsing in the kitchen from his magic which is vibrating with his boyish excitement. Florence will never tire of giving him gifts, of seeing him unwind like this. There is a slight wrinkle in his brow as he lifts the silver pocket watch by its chain, a plain, unadorned trinket that has long ceased to count time.

“Explain,” he murmurs, and Florence has to drag her eyes away from his fingers as they brush over the back of the time piece.

“It is a multi-use Portkey,” Florence says, stepping forward to flip open the watch cover. “Ambassadors use them to travel between their home and the foreign embassy where they work. They are programed with two locations – so for this one, it’s programmed for Diagon Alley and the Spectre arrival point.”

“What about customs?” Tom asks, but his face is shining with wonder, with the discovery of magic that makes the world small.

“They are government issued and extremely hard to secure because they override the use of customs. Each time you use the Portkey your departure date and time will register both with MACUSA and your Ministry of Magic in their Departments of Transportation. It means they have your travels on record, but you don’t have to go through the hassle of purchasing a new portkey each time or get approved for international travel.”

“How did you come by this?”

“My dad got it, actually,” Florence admits. “I had to beg him, but he gave in.”

“And you have one? To come here?” Tom prods.

“No,” Florence answers, and she cannot keep the line of bitterness form her voice. “Dad didn’t think it was safe for a young woman to have something that allowed her to travel internationally, unaccompanied upon the slightest whim. He said I would run into danger.”

“All the same,” Tom murmurs, and the depth in his voice makes her stomach coil. “You will not be so unreachable now.”

“I know you will be busy when you secure a job, and it’s unrealistic for me to hope that you will pop across the ocean just for lunch, but I do hope you will put it to good use,” Florence murmurs. Tom kisses her like she has given him the sun, and in some way she supposes she has. He’d wanted her, but this was as close as she could get to giving herself without giving up her dreams of working for her family. When he smiles at her, everything else pales in comparison.

They practically run to the bedroom, dinner long forgotten under its stasis spell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alsooooo if anyone does make a playlist, feel free to send me the link! toodleoo for now!


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, what's up, hello!! I'm a bit behind on my writing for possibly the first time ever writing this (I'm only one chapter ahead - GASP) so I may be a few days longer after this update, but wanted to get this out for all of you to read!!! Thank you as always for the people who are still here, I will never deserve you :,)

**Chapter 42**

“Strange, isn’t it? To love a book. When the words on the pages become so precious that they feel like part of your own history because they are. It’s nice to finally have someone read stories I know so intimately.”   
― Erin Morgenstern, The Starless Sea

Florence had expected some kind of housewarming gift from her family for completing a year of schooling at Hogwarts. It was the sort of traditional, generous act that Eudora Allman lived for, her bread and butter to living as an outstanding member of elite Spectre society. Florence had predicted perhaps jewelry, or an old family heirloom, but what she had gotten had left her speechless until it reduced her to tears.

It was a house. Two stories, larger than anything any young woman living alone could ever need, with its own wrap around porch and white clapboard siding, an imitation of the family home in miniature. The building was situated on nearly the opposite side of the estate, miles and miles from her parents but seconds away via apparition, nestled between two fully realized fields of Dittany trees. Behind the house Florence could see the hill and copse of trees that were home to Illini, the river meandering steadily across the horizon like a silver snake. Her parents could not know the importance of this location, but it was obvious they had chosen it for its beauty, for the stunning ambiance of a southern home nestled among the rolling hills of Georgia.

“There’s a small garden out back, but we figured you’d want to do most of the landscaping yourself,” Clifford admits, jamming his hands into his jean pockets.

“And June and Cash will be residing with you,” Eudora adds with clinical directness, of course more focused upon what was happening inside the house rather than out.

“Thank you,” Florence whispers, unable to tear her eyes away from the home that was hers, a physical piece of land that her parents had signed away to her, for her. A bit of the Allman history she could now claim. The idea brought tears to her eyes, and Florence blinked furiously, trying to regain control of her breathing. “ _Thank you._ ”

“Of course, dear,” Eudora says, offering her daughter a rare, warm smile. “We’ll leave you to explore the home on your own, but let us know if you need anything.”

Florence feels her mouth fall open in surprise at this comment. Her mother was passing up a chance to show her around the home, to point out all of the décor and antiques and artwork and explain the specific significance? It was so out of character that Florence wondered if perhaps she was feeling well, and somehow touched that her mom thought her capable of determining the worth of her new things on her own. _Mothers_.

“Oh don’t look so surprised,” Eudora snaps, but her eyes crinkle slightly with a repressed smile. “You are a woman now. The responsibilities of maintaining a house will fall to you, and I can only hope that I have gotten something through that dense head of yours. Lord knows I got nothing through Albion’s, and he’s a daisy compared to you.”

There are hugs and kisses to her forehead and profuse thanks on Florence’s behalf, and then they are gone and she is sprinting up the stairs, using the key her father presented her to unlock the front door.

The home smells of fresh paint and recently carved wood, every corner empty of cobwebs, the windows spotless and pristine. Eudora’s sensibilities are everywhere – thick oriental rugs in deep red and blue, hand carved antiques with brass finishes, painted ceramics the size of Florence with large leafy plants that sing of her father’s touch, of Adsila’s magic.

Cash and June are waiting in the first parlor with a glass of champagne, clapping their tiny hands and congratulating her on home owning.

“Missy Florence!” June squeaks. “We is so excited to be living here with you. Misses Eudora has told us to tells you that you are welcome to decorate the whole house hows you’d like.”

“That’s a shock,” Florence mutters, her brain still reeling that she owns a _home_. The parlor has a pale blue ceiling and a delicate floral wallpaper that is moving – blooming and wilting with comforting repetition – upon closer inspection. There are framed black and white photographs of her family upon the dresser, the silver frame polished to perfection until it gleams in the mid-afternoon sunlight. Two year old Florence stands on her father’s lap, pulling at Albion’s hair while Eudora encourages a scrawny Owen to smile for the camera. It is chaotic and wonderful and Florence feels herself reach the verge of crying for what feels like the hundredth time in mere minutes.

Determined to see the entire home, she speeds through the first floor which reveals a study, several more sitting rooms, a kitchen she won’t be spending any time in, and a pantry with a year’s supply of potions each neatly labeled in Owen’s careful script. Sprinting up the stairs, she takes turns at hairpin speed, throwing open door after door, her shock growing with each new sight. There are several bedrooms, each equipped with their own bathroom, enough space to house a militia. One thick wooden door hides a personal potions laboratory while another is a personal library.

The master suite is a dream – a full sitting room, demure whites, enough windows to drown Florence in light every morning and at night in the fabulous reds and oranges of sunset across the fields. From her bed she can see straight out to the river and Illini’s hill, no longer a distant speck on the horizon from her old room. She is rounding the bed to approach the window when she spots the picture framed beside her bed, the sight of it gluing her to the floor.

It is Florence and Tom at her debut, the greyscale tone making the black of Tom’s hair, the white of Florence’s dress all the more extreme. She remembers the photo being taken by one of the wandering photographers, Tom’s hand pressed to her back, Florence’s own around his neck. She watches with grotesque fascination as the photo version of Tom and Florence spin, their eyes locked upon each other’s like there is a silent conversation ongoing, their bodies pressed so close together it’s a wonder one of the Spectre grandmothers hadn’t ripped them apart and reprimanded them on the spot. With each spin her photographed self would turn to smile at the camera just in time for the flash, and it was in that moment when her gut would constrict because the Tom of the photo would not turn. His eyes remained focused on Florence’s face, magnetic and heavy and _desperate_ , like his life had ceased to continue without her attention – the moment she had looked away.

Florence stands watching this picture for an unknowable amount of time. It is the same one she placed on Tom’s bedside the morning she left England, a note leaning against it that simply read _Achilles and Helen_. She’d angled it so that he could see it even when he lay down to sleep, jealous that any thought might pass through his mind that was unrelated to Florence before slipping into dreams.

Leaving him had been far harder than anything she’d done in her relatively unchallenged life. Tear stained and breathless, she’d kissed him goodbye, the image of him cut from glass, high-brow features framed with grief burning brightly in the forefront of her mind even now. He’d ordered her to write to him, even though as he’d already pointed out, she of course would, and then he’d kissed her, smothering her until even the air she breathed was his too.

“You are mine, Florence,” he’d hissed into her ear. “Do not let distance make you forget.”

“Visit soon,” was all she’d pleaded in response because of course she was his and he was hers and she could be on Venus and she’d always remember the way his magic burned through hers.

Shaking herself slightly, drawing her mind away from the tunnel of thoughts that would pull her into sadness, Florence returns to the first floor of the home. _Her_ home. Taking a seat at the desk in the study, she pulls out a fresh piece of parchment, quill, and ink, determined to begin marking the space as her own at once.

.

.

.

Florence’s first week working in the greenhouse leaves her so exhausted that when Sunday morning rolls around, she cannot even get out of bed, calling for June from beneath her quilt to please bring her morning coffee to the master suite instead of out on the back porch as she typically has it. June complies cheerily, Florence laughing at the little elf’s reminder that her mother discourages breakfast in bed, and thrilled with the rediscovery that this is _her_ house and that the rule no longer applies.

Her body protests when she sits up, summoning her robe from the bathroom and swaddling herself in the silky fabric. She’s been up before the sun every day this week, roused by either June or Cash and served a hasty breakfast before apparating to the greenhouses for a hard day’s work. Even after years of following her father around, there are so many nuances to the workflows upon the estate that Florence had not seen, so many staff members she had not met.

Pauleen and Mike Mitchell had taken her under her wing, showing her where the seeds were stored in a temperature controlled room, where the fertilizer was kept, the shipping logbooks, how to send for more soil or glass to replace broken panes within the greenhouse. Every day they made their rounds, some planting by hand, others transitioning seedlings into larger pots, and yet others watering and fertilizing. Florence had to stop herself what felt like every few minutes, overwhelmed anew each time she saw the first sight of a new stalk pushing up from the earth, the innocence of fresh life quite literally blooming into the world. Each time it reduced her to tears.

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” Pauleen agreed, noticing on Florence’s first day when the girl had fallen silent, brown eyes swimming with unshed tears.

“They’re voices are so quiet.”

“So you talk with them too. Your father does – hear him muttering under his breath all day out in the fields.” Pauleen has a deep, honied voice that booms throughout the greenhouse, filling the space with laughter or singing. She and her husband had moved their family record player into the greenhouse, magically enhanced to turn the vinyl’s without manual interaction, the music echoing throughout every crevasse of each building.

It made Florence weep for an entirely different reason when Glenn Miller played and there were no midnight eyes to meet hers, to tell her she was Helen of a thousand ships. No Tom to tell her that he wanted whatever it is she was. _Divinity and magic incarnate_. Her body had ached for him for the rest of the day, for the familiar thrill of his magic clawing its way up her spine, but the songs of the land and of her people had lulled her to sleep that night in the end.

“Of course,” Pauleen had continued. “I don’t need to be able to speak to them to feel their magic. That’s the nice thing about plants, they just give and give and give, and all we do is try and give back.”

Mike was quieter than his wife, a thin, sweaty man who smiled more than he frowned. He brought Florence water when she looked like she might drop, and sometimes he would stand and watch as she sang in Cherokee to the seedlings, coaxing them from their warm, earthen abode into the world of light and wind and rain. She could not grow them the way she had grown the tree at Samhain or Tom’s tree far off upon Illini’s hill – it was too taxing, and there were thousands and thousands of seedlings within the hundreds of greenhouses, but she could whisper for strong roots and wide leaves, for sap that moved like molten chocolate through their small, green veins. And the spirits would whisper back, their innate magic finding confluence with hers, a melding of enchantment that made the earth hum and the air crackle and the world just a bit more alive – even just for a moment.

June set Florence’s breakfast on the table in her sitting room, and with a final bow, disappeared back to the kitchen. On the tray, alongside the pot of coffee and typical serving of freshly cut watermelon and scrambled eggs were several letters. Florence tore into them while she charmed the coffee pot to pour her a mug.

The first was from Tallulah, inviting herself over for dinner the next week to see the new home. Florence flipped the letter over and scribbled a hasty _yes_ on the back before setting it aside to be delivered by messenger eagle. The next was from Forsythe, who Florence had written too asking to purchase some of his blue azaleas. She wanted them planted along the front of her house and possible along the drive between the two Dittany fields – a smaller, cozier entrance than the grand oak-lined drive of the main estate.

Forsythe had of course given her a discount, agreeing to have the plants over later in the week and install them upon the grounds himself. Rolling her eyes slightly at his overt attempt at playing the Southern Gentleman, Florence scribbled back her response, and set his letter aside too.

The last letter bore no markings except her name. _Florence_ written in delicate, curling script that could be from no one but Tom. Gulping down hair, Florence reaches for it, peeling back the envelope somewhat reverentially. It has been two weeks since she’d left, and some part of her resents that he has not used his portkey to come see her, but at least she has this from him.

_Florence,_

_Dippet denied me my rightful post at Hogwarts. He says that I am too young, that it would make the students uncomfortable to have a teacher who appears their own age._

_I have tried to be rational about this situation, but I cannot reason it. He is wrong. There is no one more worthy, I will show him this._

_I need you here. The apartment is a shell of memories that all pertain to you – you should be with me._

_Tom_

Florence’s head buzzes, expanding to accept the words she has just read. Everything inside of her, within that space Tom has carved between her ribs, aches for him. _You should be with me_. She can feel the bitterness in these letters in the same way she can feel each breath that fills her lungs, that despite the gift she has given him to bridge the gap between American and Britain, he was on some level betrayed by her choice to return home.

Florence is still digesting the letter, rolling over each word in her mind when she feels it, the hooking beneath her navel, the spiraling sensation of levity in her gut, and then the unmistakable pull of a portkey. She screams, but there is no sound that exits, her body swirling through nothingness, her letter clamped within one hand and mug of lukewarm coffee in the other. Beneath her arm her wand tip jabs into her side, the instrument rammed haphazardly into her robe pocket where she prays it will not fall out. Can things fall out during portkey travel? Florence does not know, she does not want to find out.

She flies through time and space, closing her eyes to stop nausea that has begun to well within her gut. Florence has no idea how long she is in motion, only that she wants it to end, unprepared as she was to be transported, lifted from the comfort of her bedroom and into the void.

At last her feet hit solid ground, coffee spilling onto her hand, burning her skin, wand clattering to the floor with a loud echo that means only that she is standing upon stone. Blinking rapidly, Florence reaches out to grab onto something with the hand holding her letter, and finds not something but _someone_. The jolt of energy that races up her arm, which makes her magic sing can only mean one thing.

“ _Tom_ ,” she breathes, turning to see her hand clasped in his, his knuckles white with the strength of his hold on her. It might have been painful had she been able to feel anything but the dizziness in her brain, but it takes several more seconds before she feels she is breathing normally and she can register that she is standing in his foyer.

“What did you do?” She stutters, seeking his gaze, finding his eyes already locked upon hers, cold and unwavering.

“The letter was a portkey,” he replies evenly. His hand trembles around hers.

“Christ, Tom. You can’t just do that,” she says, closing her eyes once more. The nausea within her is growing, and she feels unstable, like part of her mind had been left in Georgia.

“Actually,” he counters, and his voice is slightly lower, as if he finds the situation amusing. “I think you will find that I can, and I did.”

“I didn’t mean you weren’t capable,” Florence snaps, and she thinks she might be sick now and the hand holding her coffee is burning and she wishes she had on more than just a flimsy silk robe because she is both too hot and too cold at once. “I mean you can’t just move my person across the globe like that. It’s wrong, and it scared me.”

“That was not my intention.” His voice is like stone across a cheese grater, and it pounds against Florence’s temples.

“What exactly was your intention?”

“You should be _here_ ,” he murmurs, and his hand trembles around hers again and all at once Florence’s mind is clear because his voice is hollow and earnest and dare she say it _sad_. Everything within her seems to crumble, and without thinking her mug of coffee falls to shatter on the floor and she is in his arms, her lips seeking his, fingers desperate to tangle in his hair. _Fuck_ how had she gone two weeks without him? How could they ever make up for those minutes lost, those hours they had spent out of each other’s reach, together only in thought?

When his hands slide down to grip the back of her thighs, lifting Florence from the ground, she thinks he will take her to his bedroom – to discover her anew – but like always, he surprises her, carrying Florence with solemn gazes and whispered words to the library where he pulls her into a chair with him, summoning from some corner of his apartment the copy of the _Iliad_.

“Read,” he commands, but his voice breaks when he says the one word and even to Florence it sounds more like a plea. She curls around him, never pulling her eyes away from his face which is blank and smooth and a perfect mask that she wants to shatter into a thousand pieces.

“Will you tell me what you’re thinking first?” Florence asks, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

“My brain won’t still when you’re away,” he croaks, lifting a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “And I don’t want to think right now. I just want _this_.”

Florence nods, because now that her brain has caught up with her, she too wants him and all of the madness that comes with it. She silences the niggling voice in the back of her mind that tells her it was wrong for him to take away her free will like that, much in the same way she’d silenced the same voice telling her that Tom had not admitted to the full story of the Chamber. If she knew, she could never go back to _not_ knowing, and she loved him, and she didn’t want to stop.

Tom’s arms wrap around her, his cheek pressed to the top of her head as Florence cracks open the book. They have sat like this so many times that it feels like returning home – stepping into amber memory.

“This is a sad part of the poem,” Florence whispers when she realizes where they are. It has been some time since she read to him, considering that they spent her last stint in Tom’s apartment in more wicked ways, and the realization presses a heaviness upon her chest.

“Book sixteen? What happens?”

“I can’t spoil it,” Florence murmurs, and his boyish excitement that someone would sit and read to him lifts some of the seriousness of moments before. “Just listen.”

Tom does listen, his chest a steady rhythm she falls into, the words rolling from her mouth like she had written them herself. When she hears his breathing change, his grip softening upon her waist, she knows he has fallen asleep. Florence folds the corner of the page down, thankful that she will not have to read of Patroclus’ death today, content to chase Tom into dreams in this stolen moment that they shared instead of considering brilliant Achilles, descending into madness over the loss of his companion. Like Tom, descending into anger without her presence.

Life did not imitate art, but _damn_ if the line did not sometimes come close.

Tom wakes her what feels like hours later, the sky outside the window black, marked only by the city skyline and the strongest of stars. His lips are soft against her temple, moving lower to claim her mouth when he feels her stirring against him, rising from slumber.

“I need to go home, Tom,” Florence mumbles against his lips, moving her hand to cup his face, to run her knuckles along his jaw.

“Stay the night, the I will take you back in the morning. With the time change, it will not affect you.”

“I have to be up before the sun tomorrow, Tom, and I want to sleep in my own bed.”

She gets to her feet, pulling him up after her. His hands settle on her hips, pushing her back until she meets the wall and he can press himself against her.

“If you don’t want to sleep here that is fine, but you don’t have to go now,” he suggests, and the sinful lilt of his voice is the only hint Florence needs. She wants to give in, to tug at the sash of her robe and let it fall to the floor, and yet she wants also to wake to watch the sun rise through the greenhouse and have breakfast on her back porch and be still and steady and prepared for her second week at work.

“Will you make me some tea?” She asks, peeling one of his hands away from her hip so that she can press her lips to the inside of his palm. “And then I do need to go home.”

Watching the myriad expressions that pass across his typically still face makes her giggle and kiss his hand again. Anger in his jaw at being denied, the softness in his gaze that is only for her, and pink cheeks of excitement – because Tom loves tea. He takes her hand and tugs her through the now dark apartment and into the kitchen, lighting lanterns and the stovetop with one wandless wave of his hand.

“I’m sorry about the teaching position, Tom,” Florence murmurs, pulling down two saucers and teacups of extremely fine demitasse. Eudora Allman would be impressed by such high end china. “It’s foolish to penalize you for your age when you have so much skill. I am sure Dippet will regret his choice.”

“He will,” Tom agrees, his voice sharp and clinical as he summons the kettle from across the room and sends it on its way to the tap where the water is already running.

“Do you know what you will do now?”

“I am…uncertain,” Tom admits, and Florence cannot tell if his hesitancy is because he despises not having a plan, or if there are things he is not ready to share with her. The idea that it may be the latter makes something inside her compress.

“Will you travel?”

“It is a consideration,” Tom agrees, summoning the kettle and placing it over the burner before turning to face her. In the shadows, his skin seems to glow like mercury, his eyes like tiny pits of chaos. “But I admit, I had hoped you would travel with me.”

“I can’t now, but I would like that someday too.”

Tom smiles at her, laying out one hand as an invitation for her to approach him. Florence of course complies, sinking into his grasp, resting her chin on his sternum so that she can still meet his gaze.

“I may,” he says, his deep voice attempting casualty. “Approach Burke for his job at his father’s store.”

“Really?”

Tom nods.

“It would be a simple job, filling time until Dippet deems me old enough to teach, and I would be able to study on the side.”

“My mother would _love_ if you could appraise our family antiques,” Florence teases, thinking about all of the new furniture in her own home. “And you could tell me all sorts of things I don’t know about _my_ new home too.”

The tea is delicious, and Tom listens quietly as she tells him about the greenhouses, about how she cried when Miller played, about Pauleen’s obsession with homemade biscuits and the spell she’d invented to knead the dough, about the reedy little spirits inside the Dittany saplings that she could feel humming across her skin like a constant breeze. Florence knows when she passes into rambling, but Tom doesn’t stop her, his midnight gaze fixed upon her lips more often than not and Florence finds herself unable to halt the blush that fixes upon her cheeks. They have another serving of tea, and Tom tells her that he’s mastered another spell that he found in a gruesome old textbook in his library that stops bleeding even from cursed wounds, that he found a very different spell that would make the constellations visible to the naked eye during the middle of the day. His eyes gleam like struck flint as he speaks of magic, and Florence finds herself slipping into the ease with him that she had missed. How could anyone deny him when he was like this?

“Have you learned to fly yet?” She asks when Tom pours her a third cup of tea.

“I will master it, Florence.”

“Maybe I will get there first.”

“If I did not think you were capable of beating me, I would not have challenged you.”

Finally the tea is truly gone and there is no more reason to stall, and yet Florence finds what she is about to ask for as terrible as he seems too, his aristocratic features forming into a frown as if he has read her mind.

“Will you transfigure my robe into a dress? I can’t do it and I can’t show up in the middle of downtown Spectre dressed like this – _especially_ with a man.” She tries to smile to ease the pain of their parting, but it comes out as a grimace.

Tom remains silent, but moments later he moves forward, pulling at the sash at her waist, his long fingers peeling back the sides of her robe until she is bared before him, her skin pebbling against the cold. Her breath catches in her throat when he sinks to his knees before her, fingers dragging down her sides, and then his mouth is touching her _there_ and Florence’s mind is blank, his name the only thing she can recall.

It is some time later that Tom reties her robe, getting to his feet and smirking at her like something feline and wicked. Florence is boneless against the kitchen counter, a self-satisfied look smeared across his porcelain face as he transforms the fabric against her skin into something closer to a day dress. He pulls the portkey from his hip pocket where Florence is touched to see he has been carrying it all day, sets the dial, and then wraps her in his arms, pressing her face to his chest as they are lifted from the ground into nothingness.

.

.

.

“They look amazing, Forsythe,” Florence says, handing him the glass of sweet tea and lemonade – a drink the NoMaj’s had been particularly fond of that Clifford Allman had adopted as his own. The bear-like boy smiled at her, easy and gentle as he wiped his brow with his sleeve, copper hair sticking to his forehead slightly in the late afternoon heat. Florence herself was still dressed in her jeans and dirt stained t-shirt from work, hair pulled back in an elastic to keep it out of her face during the day.

“Not too bad, I’ll admit,” he agrees, taking a long sip of the proffered drink, turning to gaze down the drive where the freshly planted azaleas stand in neat rows. “I just hope they take root ok.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Florence says, unable to keep some of the smugness from her voice. “In fact, watch,” she orders, jumping from the top step down to the ground, waving him after her as she approaches the start of the row. Forsythe trudges after her, shaking his head with a knowing smile.

“If you’re trying to make me look bad, you don’t have to do whatever it is you’re about to do,” he cajoles, but he kneels beside the first azalea, checking beneath the lowest boughs to see the freshly upturned soil. Florence tugs off her boots, and with a smirk that Tom would be proud of, begins to beat her feet against the earth, eyes closing as her voice warbles out into the air.

She had been using her native magic so often over the past few weeks that it took almost no coaxing now to feel the rush of heat beneath her fingers, the tingle in the air and down her spine as those spirits around her joined in her song. Where before it may have taken ten words, it now only took five, her heart in tune with the wants and desires of the life forces around them. Florence closes her eyes, her chanting increasing as she feels the azaleas respond to her song, unsure and hesitant to join her while their roots attempted to find purpose once more in new soil. Florence smiled to herself, and let her voice rise higher, pressing for deep roots and kind soil and thin spindly fibrous roots and a connection between these new plants and her land that would last for many years.

When she opens her eyes again, she can see that much of the upturned soil has settled, as if the ground itself has drawn in the azaleas in a welcome embrace to the land.

“An absolute show-off,” Forsythe whispers from the ground beside her, forearms resting on his thighs as he stares down the line of shrubs. Florence’s pride flares.

“It feels good to have something that’s mine,” Florence admits, offering him a hand and pulling Forsythe back to his feet. “I mean, I know I’m part of the family and all, but this house is mine, in my name. Maybe that doesn’t make sense?” Her voice tapers off as her eyes find once more the white clapboard structure, the ferns that hang from baskets between columns.

“Nah, I understand,” Forsythe agrees, his voice like sugar it’s so easy. “That’s how I felt when dad gave me control of the farm operations. It felt nice to put my name on it since I’d felt like it was mine for so long.”

“It just feels like I’m doing something right, working here where my family always has.”

“When’s Alb moving home to take over?” Forsythe asks as they take a seat on her front steps.

“After the wedding he and Margaret will move into the estate and Dad will start to transition. I think Owen wants to hold off a few years though before he takes on a shipping empire,” Florence explains, closing her eyes and letting the wind tickle the stray hairs beside her face.

“You three will be good for this place.”

“Yeah,” Florence agrees with a smile. “I think we will.”

.

.

.

Radella visits on Florence’s eighteenth birthday, although Florence knows it’s really to see Owen. They spend the weekend trying to teach her how to ride when she can escape Owen’s library, and Florence and her nearly burn down her home attempting to make cookies. The raven haired girl _oohs_ and _ahs_ in all of the right places when Florence gives her a tour of her house, and she points knowingly to the pictures of Florence and Tom which have multiplied across the house from the one beside the bed to several others in various rooms.

Tom can’t get to America for her birthday because Philip’s father, Caractacus, and his new boss, Mr. Borgin, sent him to Scotland to pester an old Lord for access into his cellars. Tom sends her a letter bemoaning the failure of his multi-use portkey to function outside of either England or America, but he tells her too that he dreams of her every night, and although it is not enough to make up for the absence of him, it eases the edge of the aching maw in her chest.

He sends her a gift too – a massive, gold-framed oil painting of a chiton clad woman with wild hair and black eyes that stare intently at a golden apple. She shifts around in the frame at alarming speed, sometimes meeting Florence’s gaze, and at others staring forlornly out through the trees. Tom includes a note with it that simply reads:

_A woman as wild as the land that raised her – Atalanta – to watch over you when I am gone. I want to read this one next._

Florence hung it that day over the fireplace in her main salon, watching as the woman moved about the frame with restless grace for hours on end.

As July passes into August and into September, Tom visits on spare weekends when he can convince Borgin to release him from work. It is never enough time, but they make the most of the hours they have, Tom patiently listening as Florence shows him the work she has been performing in the greenhouses, or picnicking with her under their tree alongside Illini. The great white creature often finds them when they are on walks, and Florence notes that she has taken an interest in Tom that seems to affirm something with herself. _If Illini likes him, then Adsila would have too_ , and that thought felt very important to Florence.

They christened Florence’s house much in the same way they had christened Tom’s apartment, and in the weeks between visits, it becomes harder and harder to find a place within her own home that does not remind her of him. She understands Tom’s words now - _The apartment is a shell of memories that all pertain to you –_ and some nights it is well into the small hours of the morning before she falls asleep, suddenly aware of how empty her bed is without him.

As October draws closer, Eudora begins to pop by unannounced, showing Florence scrapbooks she has been preparing with fabric samples and photos of flower arrangements and all sorts of other decisions for the wedding. Margaret comes often too, and they typically find themselves sitting in Florence’s dining room, sampling cakes or laughing at suggestions that some of Margaret’s ancient family members have given her for the wedding. Florence cannot ever recall sharing something like this with her Mom, but having it now breathes new life into their relationship, and she is thankful for it.

There are letters from friends in England and the odd dinner party to attend in town, and Florence finds herself sinking in a routine, the days melting away one after another. She misses Tom, but she finds that if she can keep busy, the memory of his eyes will not haunt her, the call of the land soothing the worry within her when she thinks about when she will see him next. Life was not perfect, but it was good, and for now that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got two incredible song recs from two incredible readers that I wanted to share with everyone because I think they both capture so beautifully the mood of this story!!!
> 
> \- Season by Cadmium, Harley Bird, and Riva (recommended by the lovely ooBedozoo)  
> and  
> \- A french song which the incredible Tournesol15 has provided a link with English subtitles too here: https://youtu.be/F5Td0TJ5GN8
> 
> Both are great songs which I've been bumping over the weekend! I'll publish the rest of my playlist at the end of the tale since it contains SPOILERS!!! Anyways, you all are fantastic and everyone please stay safe!!


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why am I posting this at such a strange hour (in comparison to my regular posting)? Who knows! Perhaps a strange form of self-torture, or perhaps I just wanted to force myself to do something, but here we are with a new chapter. 
> 
> Very excited to see what each of you think with this update - thank you for your sweet words. There is some lovely quote I cannot recall - I think its Tennyson - but the gist of it is that "every time I think of you there is another flower in my garden" or yadda yadda something similar but much more beautiful. And that, you incredible people, is how I feel reading all of your comments and kudos and bookmarks!
> 
> Please continue to stay safe and monitor your mental health during these times<3

**Chapter 43**

“No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.”   
― Aristotle

Tom stares at the tottering old woman before him, the toothless smile he has perfected over the years plastered across his face as she drones on in that papery thin voice he despises about the passing of her husband four years prior. It is the fourth time she has told him this tale, and yet Tom must pretend to care yet again because Mr. Borgin had assured him that the Bones Matriarch had several priceless Goblin-made artifacts in her care, hinting at how _fortunate_ it would be if she just so happened to sell them to the shop instead of passing them on down the family line. Tom did not care about Goblin-made jewelry, but if he was able to secure these goods for the shop, Borgin had suggested that he could find more… _interesting_ cases for Tom to work on.

“Of course, you must come back for tea next week,” she wheezes, waving a gnarled hand before her as if batting at flies. “My own family never takes time to see me, and if you keep bringing me such delightful offers from Borgin, dear Mr. Riddle, I just might sell you my tiara.”

“I am sure Mr. Borgin would be delighted were you to do so,” Tom agrees coolly. “But I consider it a great pleasure to have made your acquaintance by any means. Such fascinating stories you have to tell.”

“Humbug,” Ms. Bones shoos, getting to her feet – quite a feat for a woman of over one-hundred. Tom can tell, however, as he follows her towards the front door past several suits of armor and expensive paintings he was sure that Borgin would want if he knew they were there, that she is pleased with his compliment. They were all pleased with his compliments he’d found – just like the Hogwarts professors, desperate to believe the beautiful face that they saw. _Predictable, simple, foolish_.

“I’ll see you next week then, Ms. Bones,” Tom says, stopping to bow low at her tottering frame. He does not smile, but he lets the corner of his lip quirk upward as if in the spirit of one, and the woman waves him off once more before closing the door in his face.

His vision is red the moment she is gone from it, whirling on the spot as he vanishes from the cursed premises he’s been assigned to visit weekly, reappearing a moment later in the stone foyer of Cygnus and Alphard Black. Without waiting for the arrival of their house elf who typically appeared to take his cloak, Tom strode down the corridor, desperate for a drink and something to fill his brain after hours of dull work.

He is halfway to the parlor when the silvery-blonde hair of Abraxas Malfoy appears from a doorway, at once his gleaming head dipped in a bow.

“Bring the others to the sitting room,” Tom quips as he passes the older man by, whirling around the corner in a flash of robes before he can even hear a reply.

The Black brothers, along with their sister Walburga, were recent additions to his little party. They’d needed convincing - the Black family had the largest bank account in Gringotts, but having Abraxas under his wing had toppled one pillar, and a lesson in Tom’s finer methods of torture had toppled the other. He’d required them to change the wards so that he could apparate in and out as he saw fit, and their bachelor’s manor had become something of a meeting space for his knights now that they were operating outside of Hogwarts.

He’d had no desire to allow them into his own apartment. Tom himself could hardly stand to be there for more than a few minutes, every surface, every corner, every empty room a reminder of the person who was _not_ there, and the idea of his knights attempting to fill the void Florence had left was laughable. She had turned his world to technicolor, and now she was on the other side of the globe returning him to grayscale.

Thinking of Florence sends a further ripple of fury through Tom as he at last bursts through the door into the Black sitting room, making his way to the bar where he summons the bottle of Firewhiskey from the top shelf without a word. It was only last week that he’d gone to visit her as her date for the ridiculous Albion Allman’s wedding, a painful reminder that he had years ahead of him to wait before he could claim Florence similarly. Patience, Tom was learning, was not something he specialized in, and the thought drove him to further rage. She’d been beautiful in a pale pink bridesmaid’s gown and she’d danced every single dance with him, but Florence had still been forced to spend time with her family and participate in the various ceremonies, and it was infuriating to be so near her and be unable to touch.

He downs the first glass of whiskey and pours himself another two fingers before taking his seat in the hard-backed chair beside the fire, his gaze fixed upon the flames. Behind him he hears several pairs of feet enter the room, but wisely they do not speak.

Tom lets the next gulp of whiskey burn down his throat before he allows himself to think of Florence again, one second’s reprieve from the thoughts that haunt him – her head thrown back in laughter, the way sunlight turns her hair golden around the edges, her voice when she says his name right before she comes…it is agony to know these things about her and to be incapable of acting upon them. He’d spent every night for the past month staring at the enchanted mirror that lay beside his bed. The portrait he’d given Florence for her birthday was of course more than a painting – he wasn’t so foolish as to give her a _regular_ gift – the Atalanta of the canvas bewitched so that one whispered word from Tom would show him what she could see. He’d instructed her to seek Florence out whenever she was in her home, moving through paintings to follow her every movement.

Most nights he watches her sleep, but sometimes he could catch glimpses of her changing or reading, and once he heard her humming a tune that they’d danced to on one night or another. That night he hadn’t slept at all. The following night she’d whispered his name in her sleep he’d given in to his weakness and activated the portkey, rousing her from sleep not even half an hour later when he clambered into her bed, pulling the quilt and her clothing off of her with reckless need. Borgin had refused to pay him that week for missing work the following day, but it didn’t matter. When she was in his grasp he could remember himself, and when she wasn’t he found his mind a tempest, the cavern in his chest howling in the wind – cold and empty and useless.

He'd nearly burned his apartment to the ground when he’d returned from his first visit to America. Leaving her had been agony, but it had pained him even more to see the framed deed to the land upon which her house sat – Florence Livingston Allman scrawled across the owner’s line. He knew without asking what it meant – that the land was hers, that it would only be that much harder to pull her away from Georgia when the time came to bring her back to England. _Back to me_. He knew also that she was growing stronger because every few weeks when he held her in his arms he could feel the waves of magic that radiated off her skin as a result of imbedding herself within those rituals she had been raised amongst, and yet Tom did not know if he would be able to wait the scarce years he had promised her. Already threads within his mind seemed to be unraveling without her present to ease his mind. He wanted her. He fucking _missed_ her and the idea that he could miss anyone made him want to blow something up.

“Cygnus, run through the list of our people in Ministry positions,” Tom barks, not bothering to turn and face him. “I want their specific roles, and I want to hear your plans for how the three of you intend to place people in those departments where we currently do not hold sway.”

The only positive that Florence’s absence had wrought was the forced refocusing upon his other goals – power, dominance, a return of his family name to prominence across England. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that Florence had been a distraction during his final year of school, she was too remarkable, the feelings she stirred within him too strong to be labeled as such, but she’d certainly shifted his priorities. Without her here to spend every waking moment haunting, he’d filled his time – and his steadily agitated mind – in other ways.

“Of course, My Lord,” Tom hears the older man say, at once rattling off the list of Tom’s various knights that had graduated from Hogwarts. Tom listens with only half a mind’s attention as Cygnus outlines those students still in school, how they could be transitioned into the Ministry and which would be taking over for their fathers at the head of family empires.

It had been simultaneously quicker than he had expected – amassing a base of pureblooded followers keen to reinstate what they believed was the proper social hierarchy – and slower than he had expected – placing people in useful positions, stirring whispers in the street, cultivating interest. Tom understood now why Grindelwald had moved into the public eye before he should have. He too wanted to claim the energy he was rousing, to be the face that led people into the next wave of British Wizarding History, and yet Tom knew he must wait. He must let his knights move out ahead of him, slipping in mentions of his name – his chosen name of course, subtle letters of blackmail, threats and carefully guarded invitations.

Tom knew without question it would be easier to pacify his impatience if Florence was present, but like his control of the Ministry, she was far off. He’d told her he wanted her to be powerful, the best version of herself, but after spending months away from her, Tom didn’t care if she could cast a lighting charm or freeze the entire ocean, he just wanted her beside him.

“I want Lestrange promoted,” Tom cut in across Black’s monologue. “And I want him in Spencer-Moon’s office. Wilhelmina Tuft and her son have already made it clear that they both intend to run for office. Send them both offers of support – separately, from each of your families. I want our next minister owing us favors.”

“Consider it done,” Abraxas agreed.

“Where do we stand with the _Prophet_?” He asked, glancing at the three men before him. Alphard’s face paled.

“My Lord, we weren’t aware…you’ve not mentioned previously…” Alphard stutters, and Tom feels the corners of his sight hinging on crimson. Must he spell out everything for them? Were they truly so incapable of thought without his guidance? Of course they would need someone inside the _Prophet_ informing them of all information that passed through their doors.

“We will have someone on the inside by the end of the month,” Cygnus smoothed over before Tom could draw his wand.

“See that you do,” Tom commands, getting to his feet so that all three heads must turn to look up at him. He feels the familiar itch to pull his wand, to curse them into oblivion – three rich, affluential young men who had been born into the splendor Tom had been denied. As always, he contains himself, and with a whirl of his cloak he is gone.

.

.

.

The sight of Florence’s home coming into view as he walks down the drive soothes Tom’s mind more than he cares to admit, already feeling the pull of her magic, the frantic energy that she stirs within his gut that no one else can pull from within him. It will never cease to amaze him how even in the middle of November, cold air making the hair along the back of his neck stand on edge, the Allman land is in full bloom, the flowers that line Florence’s drive open and inviting.

He’s stepping into the loop before her house when the screen door flies open and she is there in a stream of caramel hair and with a scream delight, running across the porch and leaping down the stairs in a pair of those jeans that make Tom’s brain go fuzzy. His world is thrown into sharp relief when body collides with his – hard and soft – the smell of coffee and dittany and something that is uniquely Florence, the floral perfume she wears, pleasant and simple and he will never get enough of it. He kisses her with abandon, his body nearly incensed by the magic of holding her in his arms after nearly a month apart, ruling in his darker thoughts to take her there in the middle of her front lawn. When she smiles against his lips, something that had been crooked within him bends slightly straighter, the beginning of a healing process only she can provide.

“I missed you,” she murmurs, her fingers raking along his scalp and doing things to his sanity that he cannot voice with dignity. “I missed you so much I haven’t been able to think straight, and I told everyone to stay away this weekend because when you were here for the wedding I didn’t like dividing my time, and you turn me into the most selfish person – did you know that?”

Her words bounce off her tongue at a thousand beats per minute, as if she wants to share every thought that has passed through her head during their time apart. Tom loves this about her, that she can still be this endearingly excited each time he arrives at her door as if it is the first time they are meeting in such a way. Her enthusiasm is the only upside to the myriad forms of torture there separation poses, the gleam in her eye of undivided devotion like a regenerative potion, refueling him.

“I’ve got tea prepared, and a surprise for us at dinner,” she says, taking his hand like it is her own and tugging him after her, up the stairs and into the front hall. Florence’s home is decidedly less clean than the home in which she grew up, clutter amassing upon every flat surface. Letters – some opened, some resolutely closed – were stacked upon the table just inside the door, a ring of keys resting beside them. Coffee mugs were everywhere – half full, empty, still steaming, and copies of both the British _Daily Prophet_ and American _Wizarding Times_ abandoned mid-read. There were vases of dried flowers that Tom himself had sent, Florence presumably incapable of throwing them out even long after they had shriveled into nothingness, and moving replicas of his own face in silver or gold frames. These two items Tom found he enjoyed the most, a physical sign of his dominance over this space as well as its owner, and he could not admonish her for her untidiness of it meant cleaning up his own claim.

She is leading him to what he assumes is the back porch when he plants his feet, forcing her to turn and face him, her always expressive face wide with surprise. Tom feels the corner of his mouth upswing into half of a smile – incapable of a full one yet, although he is certain that with enough time in her presence, she will be coaxing a full grin from him.

“Come here,” he murmurs, and at once like he is Theseus and she is the thread, Florence is in his arms and he can drag his fingers through her hair and tilt her face up to meet his. He can kiss her and press her against the wall and it doesn’t matter that for the past few months he thought he was losing his mind, Florence is his once more. It is like being injected with morphine, the pleasure numbing and mind wringing and incoherent.

“ _Fuck_ I missed you,” she hisses when his mouth moves to her throat. Tom feels laughter – the first time the sound has left his throat since he saw her last – rumble in his chest.

“Always so eloquent,” he murmurs.

“Didn’t you miss me?” She asks, her head leaning back against the wall as Tom’s fingers trace the seam of her shirt down the side, his nail running along the waist of her jeans. Her responding shiver makes him see red with desire.

“I’m not so weak,” he tells her, teeth sinking into her shoulder. Some form of strangled sound leaves Florence’s mouth and Tom is heady with control, like he has summited a mountain or swam across the sea. _It has been too long._

Yet before he can truly take advantage of his power over her, Florence’s hand slides between his legs, clenching around the hardness there until Tom is hissing into her skin.

“I think you did,” she accuses, her hand moving away just as quickly as it had found him. “But I’d like to hear you say it anyways.”

Her voice is softer this time, a hint of longing in her tone, and Tom pulls his face away so that he can meet her gaze. She is so outspoken that sometimes he forgets she is just a girl who is desperate for him in all of the ways a woman can be. In others he finds these traits loathsome, in Florence they are a reminder of her goodness, of those feelings she had introduced into his world with a blaze of magic.

“Today was the first in a month I did not awake in agony,” Tom says solemnly, and he cannot be embarrassed because it is only the truth. “It was only because of you, because I knew I was going to see you. You should not question what you already know.”

To Tom’s surprise, he notes that her gaze is swimming with tears, her lips wobbling around a smile that threatens to break across her face. When she laughs, it is small and broken and yet light as the first breath of spring. He does not know why pain ripples through his chest.

“You’re absolutely brilliant,” she murmurs, and Tom cannot comprehend, but it matters _more_ this time that she’s just speaking about him – not his intelligence or his magic or even who he descends from, even though each of those things alone is magnificent. And yet, no one has ever thought Tom Riddle, half-blood with a filthy last name and too serious demeanor, was brilliant on his _own_ , because of himself. _Except Florence Allman_. He kisses her again before he can register what it means, why her words summon that raw feeling within his chest.

“Come on, tea out back,” Florence says after several moments have passed. “And I want to show you what I’ve been working on in the garden.”

“I’ll meet you out there,” Tom agrees. “Restroom.”

Florence presses her lips to his cheek and then slides beneath his arm, leaving Tom colder than moments before as she makes her way down the hall towards the back porch. He waits until he hears the screen door slam before moving into action, shoving one hand into his robe pocket to close around the package there while at the same time calling out loud:

“ _June, Cash!”_

The house elves appear before him with a loud _crack_ , bowing before him until their noses seemed to brush the floor. Tom has a strange moment in which he recalls that Florence typically gets to her knees when talking to her elves, but Tom kneels for no one.

“What can we do for young Mister Tom?” Cash squeaks, bowing once more. Tom feels an easy smirk spread across his face. Florence had instructed them upon his first visit to obey him as if he was a member of the family, and he had every intention of putting that to good use.

“I have an order for you, but I need a vow of silence from you both that you will speak to no one of it. No other creature, nor even a member of the Allman family,” Tom hisses. June’s eyes widen slightly, but her head bobs in a resounding yes.

“Of course, Mister Tom. We will not speak of whatevers it is you wishes unless told otherwise,” she pipes up, her voice thin and reedy.

“Missy Florence has told us we are to listen to you like family, and we wills, Sir,” Cash adds, and Tom’s smirk broadens.

“This,” Tom murmurs having received an affirmative, “is Dittany Concentrate.” Tom lifts the crystal phial from his pocket, revealing the silvery-sage liquid which is now a shade darker, nearly moss, thanks to his adjustments. “It is a health restorative – something to protect her while I am away. I want you to add one drop of this to Florence’s coffee every morning. Under no circumstances may she know what you are doing, and should she not have her morning coffee, it is vital that a drop of this be added to some other meal consumed during the day.”

“And if Missy Florence is traveling, Sir?” June asks.

“Then you will travel with her, unbeknownst to her,” Tom commands.

Without Florence present in England, he’d been able to accomplish far more than just the preliminary moves for his English conquest. He could still recall that day in Florence’s potion hall as she told him that her Great Grandmother’s life had been extended due to the effects of Dittany on her person. Tom had added rejuvenating spells to the vial of Dittany Concentrate he had brewed, shredded Agrimony picked on the new moon for restoration, and Hyssop sap for purification. It would not make her immortal, but it would reduce the greatest effects of time, increasing her cell replication so that any damaged tissues would return almost to new. The updated formula would most importantly buy him time until Tom could find a way to truly make her eternal. It had cost Malfoy several hundred galleons to secure the ingredients, and several hundred more to record the shipment off the books, but the updated potion assured Florence would stand by him for the rest of time, and that in itself was priceless.

“Of course, Sirs, that is easy enough. One drop a day,” June squeaks cheerfully, reaching out with both hands to take the crystal from him. Tom nods and leaves, pleased that it had been so simple to implement, that like Florence, her house elves would choose to believe that his words. But it hadn’t been a lie, he considers. It was a healing potion, just healing her from time itself, saving her for himself.

Tea is short lived before Tom manages to weasel both of them out of their clothes – not that it took much convincing. Only a look and a stray brush of his fingers up the inside of her leg and they were both on their feet, scampering into the first bedroom on the second floor, discarded clothes like a trail of destruction in their wake. Florence laughs when he lifts her from the ground and tosses her onto the guest room bed, her mouth wide and teeth white and gods she’s fucking naked and desperate for him and all he can think is that it’s the most wonderful sound he’s ever heard. He kisses her to calm these thoughts, her body the anchor that ties his mind to reality. _I cannot go so long without her again._

“We have to go to dinner,” Florence says several hours later, her fingers running absent mindedly through his hair. His head is resting upon her stomach, Tom’s mind blessedly still for the first time in recent memory.

“Why,” he demands. He does not want to leave the safety of this bed, of this moment with Florence where he is warm and sated and she is easily within his reach and capable of meeting all of his needs.

“Because I have something prepared for us,” she murmurs, the hand in his hair moving down to run across his cheek, his jaw, the bridge of his nose. No one has ever touched him so gently.

“ _Please,_ angel, for me?”

She looks at him with those wide, sincere eyes that make his stomach clench and jerks his head once in the affirmative, turning to press his lips to her stomach before giving her room to sit up. He tries not to dwell on the undeniable fact that Florence saying please is all it takes for him to give in, that her pet name for him makes his reason slip.

“Your stuff is in in the master, June is going to help me in the green room,” Florence instructs, bouncing on her toes like she could implode at any moment. “You’re not to come downstairs for half an hour, is that understood?”

Tom nods again, feeling the smile she has been coaxing out of him since he had arrived finally settle over his features. Florence’s responding grin was bright enough to burn cities for. He _will_ burn cities for it, if he must.

There is a set of black dress robes made of a thick, fine material waiting for him across Florence’s bed – _their_ bed as he thinks of it because no one else will ever share it with her. He dresses quickly, Cash appearing to help gel his hair, and then he must agonize for another twenty minutes before he sets off across the hall and down the stairs to the main floor.

At once he knows Florence is up to her usual surprises, the entire first level of the home darkened except for occasional sconces which flicker with blue flames. There is a soft humming of music, the swelling melody like a voice from his childhood – familiar, but unrecognizable. Curiosity sufficiently spiked, he makes his way with silent footfalls down the main corridor of the home, following the flickering blue flames towards the back porch where his eyes fall upon the silver clad figure of Florence, her back to him as she faces out across the gardens behind her house. There is a thickness in his chest as realization dawns upon him, and understanding of what she has done because he will remember that dress for the rest of his life, the constellations that are dusted across the thin fabric, the open expanse of skin on her back and shoulders that allowed him to first experience the thrill of holding her.

“Florence,” he murmurs, stepping through the doorway and onto the back porch where the music is playing from a record player. She turns to see him, her face split into a wide smile, her hand seeking his at once.

“Tom,” she mimics, and for a second he is not in Georgia but upon the balcony at the Greengrass estate, reliving the pull he had felt to her even then, the madness that had overtaken him.

“Samhain,” he says, lifting her hand to brush his lips against her fingers. Even through the darkness he can see the flush on her cheeks, a trophy of his control over her despite the number of times he has done this.

“I was so sad to miss it this year with work, I thought we could have our own.”

“Would you like for me to summon a dragon?” Tom teases, but his voice is dry and he can’t seem to rip his eyes away from hers, his comment which was supposed to be a mockery coming out as more of a genuine offer.

“I’d really like to dance,” Florence murmurs with another blush. “But if you’d prefer to eat dinner, we can do that first.”

Tom pulls her to him without thinking, nearly laughing at the idea of food when Florence stands before him looking like a ray of starlight. She is warm beneath the pads of his fingers, and when she lays her head on his chest, heat seems to burn through him. Tom wants to ask her why she does things like this for him, what inside of her drives Florence to kindness, but he finds his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth. If he asks, she will give him that look that is one part grief and the other pity, and he cannot stand to see anything but the adoration that is currently nesting there in the lines between her freckles, in the curve of her smile.

.

.

.

He wakes in the middle of the night to find Florence wrapped around him, a thin line of drool leaking from the corner of her mouth. Tom watches her for some time, aware that it is the first time he has seen her sleep in person in over a month despite having watched her from afar nearly every evening, and the thought is electrifying with the knowledge that he can _touch_ her, if he wants too.

When he realizes that he will be unable to fall back asleep, Tom slides from the bed, casting wordless silencing charms to muffle his movements and a warming charm over the bed so as not to wake Florence. There is an entire wardrobe of clothes Florence has purchased for him for his visits, including his own sets of jeans which he finds stiff and uncomfortable, but which seem to send Florence into aroused overdrive. He pulls on a pair without thinking followed by a dirty t-shirt that smells like Florence and a pair of trainers before apparating out of the house and onto Illini’s hill. Perhaps the great beast would be awake and converse with him until Florence had risen and he could lose himself in her again.

He appears from the void beneath his tree, the one that he can feel the traces of his own magic within, and pressing his palm against it, Tom can feel too the stirring of Florence’s song – an amalgamation of what they could be together if only she would give in and follow him back to England. The thought sends a ripple of fury through him, and he shivers in the cool night air.

“ _Cub, what brings your restless wanderings to me?”_ A rasping voice echoes in his mind, and despite having visited Illini more times than he can recall, he is never prepared for the way her mind melding with his rips away his occlumency shields with such ease. It is this ability of hers which fascinates him – the only living being with unfettered access to his mind.

“ _Illini,_ ” Tom greats her with a bow. The massive white creature is seated before him, milky eyes fixed resolutely upon his figure. “ _I could not sleep, and thought it prudent to visit you.”_

_“You have a silver tongue, cub, although why you feel the need to lie I do not know. If you would like to know what she says of you when you are away, you need only ask. It is nothing you have not heard before – I know, I see your mind.”_

_“She speaks of me often?”_ Tom asks, and he tries to ignore the petulance in his voice.

_“Florence visits her tree more than she visits me, but when we happen upon this place at the same time, her mind is filled with thoughts of you.”_

_“She misses me?”_

_“Of course, you ask for answers you already possess,”_ Illini rumbles in his mind, her voice dropping lower. _“She is not driven mad as you are by the separation, but her spirit is intact while yours is only but a shadow of what it once was…”_

Tom does not know what his horcruxes have to do with the agony he feels while he is away from Florence, but it is a small relief to know that she seeks out memories of him even when he is gone.

 _“Will she be prepared to follow me soon?”_ Tom asks, thinking again of his empty apartment that seems to scream with want for Florence’s warmth. A cave as empty as the one beneath his ribs that only Florence can roost within.

_“What do you mean by follow? Followership in body or in mind?”_

Tom pauses – he considers what he wants from her, which is both. Her undivided attention, her support in those dreams of power he has nurtured in his mind since he first arrived at Hogwarts. But he thinks too of his vacant bed in England, of his dreams which he wakes from grasping for nothingness beside him, and he knows he wants this first – _needs_ it even.

 _“I want her with me, in England,”_ Tom declares.

_“And what would you give her in return for leaving behind all she has ever desired?”_

_“She desires me – there is nothing more to give but myself,”_ Tom counters, feeling his ire rise along the back of his neck.

_“Loving is giving. She would give this up for you, but you who possess half a spirit – what could you give when you have nothing to give even yourself?”_

_“Love is weakness, disease,”_ Tom spits, infuriated that even this seemingly all-knowing beast could be so swayed by thoughts of _love_ , that pathetic and wretched mark of humankind. His mother had succumbed, but he would never.

 _“Is it weakness you see in her eyes when she looks at you? I see your mind, cub. You who believe magic itself had bonded you – you would label that wretched?”_ Illini’s voice is loud within Tom’s head, his skull threatening to crack under the pressure. Unbidden Florence’s face swims before him, and he wishes suddenly that he had never left their bed, that he had woken her from sleep to be with him, to still his racing thoughts.

 _“What would you know of loving or giving?”_ Tom challenges instead. _“You, Illini, who live alone, who exist outside the confines of time, who’s reality is only that of a winged shadow. Who are you to judge me? What have you given?”_

Before him Illini’s tail thrashes, her milky eyes narrowing slightly, but her voice is silent in Tom’s head. With a savage smile, he knows that he has backed her into a corner, driven her to silence, and he feels vindicated. He reaches into his back pocket for his wand, but Illini’s head lowers to the ground before him, and he freezes.

 _“To forgo death is to sacrifice life,”_ she repeats, words that had haunted him since their first meeting nearly a year ago. _“You think yourself wise, Cub, but power is not wisdom and love is not possession. Go to her, fill the emptiness in you while you can, but ask yourself what you have to give – what you are willing to give.”_

Tom apparates back into their bedroom, unable to listen any longer to the winding musing of the Piasa. His heart thunders in his chest as he traces the profile of Florence’s face, bronzed skin glowing like silver in the moonlight. He does not understand Illini’s warnings, and why should he? He has everything already – Florence is his, why would he give something up to maintain that?

He undresses and slips into bed beside her, waking Florence without hesitation to share in that magic they have together, to silence the pulsing in the back of his mind, the splinters that are slowly wedging his brain apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got even more incredible incredible song recs from readers I wanted to share. I listened to all of them and DAMN I'm continuously so impressed by the astute readings of these characters - you guys are incredible!!
> 
> \- Ane Brun's "I Wouldn't Hurt a Fly" from Tom's POV and "Lifeline" for Florence's are so haunting and beautiful I was ENRAPTURED (from the amazing Dolphingirl 16)  
> \- StormAge shouting out some Taylor Swift Folklore vibes - I mean what a compliment. I personally think "Exile" gives me the most Limited vibes, but there are several on that album that are applicable in my paltry opinion.  
> \- The stunning Tournesol15 recommended "Achilles, Come Down" by Gang of Youth which is incredible at capturing both Achilles' mindset and through him Tom, who in so many ways I see as a mirror. Seriously such a good rec!
> 
> Feel free to share anything with me - music recs, fic recs, any art if any of you are artists. I love love love seeing what you think and what you love!
> 
> Also this chapter gives me major "Tom is losing his marbles" vibes and it makes me S A D cause I want my baby to be better and he just simply isnt!!!


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everyone!!
> 
> I am so terribly sorry to have been away for so long. I've been sort of down recently for no real reason except that sometimes the real world is hard, and I was having trouble even getting the most vital of things done. Without going into detail, life was hard, and I'm so incredibly happy to be back! Thank you endlessly for your patience if you were someone waiting for this story to update!!
> 
> There are so many new readers from when I was gone - hey, what's up, hello!!! I'm grateful to everyone joining the journey and I hope that this next update lives up to your expectations. You readers are the most wonderful thing to happen to me during 2020. Everyone please continue to stay safe and monitor your mental health if you're stuck inside for long periods of time. Happy reading Xx

**Chapter 44**

“It is a long way off, sir"  
"From what Jane?"  
"From England and from Thornfield: and ___"  
"Well?"  
"From you, sir”   
― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

Spring came, and with it came an increased workload, the Dittany trees seeming to sense their prime reproductive months despite the eternal summer that lived within the Allman estate. Florence is strolling along the rows of seedlings, her fingers hovering just over their blooming, silver leaves, singing under her breath for strong roots and thick stems when her father arrives, his leathered skin damp with sweat, face relaxed into an easy smile.

“I could feel your song from nearly a mile away,” Clifford murmurs, running a forearm along the skin of his brow as he makes his way towards her. Florence feels herself smile, mimicking his movements as she wipes moisture from her own skin. “For a moment I thought I was going mad you sounded and felt so much like Adsila. I had to remind myself she has joined the Great Spirit before I entered the greenhouses.”

“Careful, wouldn’t want all these compliments to go to my head,” Florence cajoles, but there is a swelling within her chest at his words. Her pointer finger and thumb absentmindedly close around a leaf – for a moment she swears she can feel the swell of magic that surges through the sap before it fades, an echo of the Cherokee’s song like memory brought to life.

“I received an eagle from your brother,” Clifford mutters, his eyes scouring over the seedlings with a discerning eye. “He’s planning on moving down for good in May when his affairs and Boston are finished.”

“When do you expect him to take over the day to day?”

“Not for another year – he’s got quite a bit to learn, and I expect you to help me guide him.”

Florence’s neck grew warm, but the usual jolt within her gut – the painful reminder that none of the land or the family business would pass to her – was curiously absent. _You have sung your way into the heart of too much of the land to resent your lot any more_ Florence realized. The businesses may be going to Albion and Owen, but she had written her name and song into the property and beings itself. What could her brothers understand of this?

“I think the saplings in greenhouses A through H will be ready to transition into the fields over the next few weeks,” Florence continues, moving past her father’s announcement. What was there to say? Albion and Margaret would move into the big house and Owen would move into the Savannah home and the next generation of Allman’s would take the reins from Clifford.

“Really?”

“The taproots are long, pushing the edge of their barriers. I don’t want to risk stunting growth,” Florence explains, the pad of her thumb gliding across the leaf within her grasp. It is smooth in its youth, the ridges within it perfectly crafted to catch the rays of light that filter through the glass ceiling above its head.

“Well, if they need transitioning, then I’ll expect you to be on hand for the move. It’s about time you moved past work in the greenhouse,” Clifford huffed, but there was a thickness in his voice that hadn’t been there. Florence’s eyes seek her father’s face at his words, dumbfounded at his implication. _He was… promoting her?_ Tears sting at her eye, but she stands still for a moment.

“You mean it?” She asks, hating that she sounds so breathless, but her brain seems to be unable to wrap around the words her father has just uttered. It seemed almost too good to be true, that she could take on an even larger role upon the estate.

“Of course I do,” Clifford grunts, his brown eyes that are the same as her own fixate at last upon Florence’s. “Of all my kids you’ve taken most naturally to the land, I’ll need you understanding the full scope of our operation before I’m too old to help and Albion gets it in his big head he knows how to run a plantation – which he doesn’t.”

If Clifford had intended to say anything else, Florence stopped him by jumping into his arms, burying her face into his shoulder to dry the tears that now ran down her face.

“Thank you! _Thank you_ , dad!”

“I think Adsila’s spirit would haunt my from the grave if I didn’t give you more work to do. You’re too valuable to what we’re doing here. A true Allman if I do say so myself,” he murmured into her ear, his hand patting her on the back before he gently pushed her away.

“I’d haunt you before you ever had to worry about Adsila,” Florence teased, her eyes roving across the rows of plants around them. The _rightness_ of it all seemed to ring through her, her mind already running away with the notes she would need to compile for Albion, the lessons she would need to teach in in the greenhouses, and now in the fields as well. There were spells she would have to teach him, workflows for ordering mulch and fertilizer and paying the staff he’d have to acquaint himself with. It was _thrilling_.

“Yes, well, I didn’t mean to distract you from your work, just wanted to check-in and update you on your brothers plans. Drop by the big house this weekend and we can start to develop strategies for transitioning the first of the greenhouse saplings,” Clifford offers before he offers her a final smile and ducks his head, shuffling out the door through which he entered.

Florence works with near frantic energy the rest of the day, her voice loud and brash as she sings to the seedlings about her, uncaring as sweat pours down her back and water from the irrigation system seeps into her boots. When at last the sun begins to set behind the far off horizon, Florence clocks out for the day and apparates onto her back porch, removing her work shoes and soaking socks before stepping into her home.

“Miss Florence!” June cries, her tiny head bobbing into the doorway with a low bow and a wide smile. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes, would you like to eat on the back porch tonight, or in your quarters?”

“Wherever you think is best, Junebug,” Florence coos, stooping so that they are eye to eye. “I’m going to shower off and pen a letter, and then you and Cash can join me to eat if you’d like.”

The house elf bobs again and disappears back into the kitchen, leaving Florence to make her way upstairs and strip herself of her mud soaked work clothes. She knew it was approaching eccentric to dine with her house elves, but as the year had elapsed, Florence had come to despise somewhat having so much space to herself, and after all, there was nothing _wrong_ with eating with her staff. They were as much her friends as Lizzie or Forsythe or Tallulah, and it was better than eating her meal and allowing her mind to wander across the ocean to Tom.

Her shower is cold on account of her burning skin, scrubbing incessantly at the line of dirt that she can no longer remove from under her nails before giving up and turning off the water. At least cleaner than she was before, Florence wraps herself in a robe and slides on a pair of house slippers before making her way back into her private study.

The excitement that had thrummed through her system like living music seems to fade slightly as Florence draws a blank piece of parchment towards her, her hand hovering over the swan feather quill without taking it. She had planned on writing to Tom the moment she returned home, but now that the blank expanse of parchment expanded before her, the words seemed to elude her. _He’s going to be furious_ Florence realizes with a wince, and she cannot tell if more of her resents his impending anger, or pities him that he is not as happy in his own life as she is in hers. _It is not your fault he hates working for Borgin_ Florence reminds herself. _You didn’t force him to take that job_. And yet despite these forceful reminders, her eyes stray to the stack of letters that had arrived over the past several months. It had been over three months since she had seen him – traveling to England for his birthday and convincing him to take a week off of work to travel with her to coast. It had been delightful, and it hadn’t been enough.

His words seem to call to her now, and as if under his spell even from afar, Florence returns her quill to its inkwell and pulls his letters close, flipping open the first and the oldest.

_Florence,_

_Borgin is sending me to France for the following two fortnights to do business with the French wing of the Malfoy family. Should you need to contact me during that time, please send all your correspondences to Walburga Black at number 12 Grimmauld Place. She will transfer your letters._

_I dreamt the other night that you were here beside me, and woke anguished that it was not so. I promised you time, but what would it take you to lessen the years between your move?_

_Yours,_

_Tom_

Florence felt again the wrinkle in her stomach reading the name _Walburga Black_. Who was she? And why did Tom entrust his mail to her? Florence felt bile rise in her throat, and she moved on to the next letter before she could dwell on the emotion.

_Florence,_

_I thought I had managed to fly the other day, but found that the spell I had crafted was too draining upon my energy and was impossible to maintain over any extended period of time. Have you mastered flight yet, or am I to be disappointed in you as well as myself?_

_I find that I cannot sleep for more than two or three hours anymore. My body does not seem to belong to itself, and I cannot understand why._

_Yours,_

_Tom_

She’d nearly ripped her hair out responding to this letter because _no_ , she hadn’t mastered flight, but admitting it to him felt like cutting off a finger or a toe. The second half of the letter had not made her feel any better. Florence had sent Tom sleeping draughts and tonics for nerves, but it had felt futile even to her. Tom was far superior to Florence when it came to potions – surely he had tried these methods, but what could she do with an ocean between them? At least she had sent him something she tried to reason, but her stomach felt hollow for days afterward.

The last letter was his most recent, having arrived only a week ago.

_Florence,_

_The Dittany saplings you sent me for my apartment arrived last week. I cannot decide if they are a blessing or a curse – every inch of my space now smells like you, but they lack your warmth although they sing of your magic. You are stronger. Even here in England I can feel the power of your enchantment that runs through these plants, and it makes my skin itch and crawl not to have you close._

_There has been growing unrest amongst several of the pureblood families, and some have suggested a vote of no-confidence for Spencer-Moon. I think it is too early, he still maintains too much support from the Mudbloods of the country for his work against Grindelwald. Hastiness will get people nowhere._

_Tom_

This letter had been the most alarming of the three for a variety of reasons – that he openly wrote the word _mudblood_ into being despite knowing Florence’s aversion, that he would go so far as to resent a gift she had sent him, _that he hadn’t signed his letter 'yours' in conclusion._ Florence’s finger traced over his name at the bottom of the scroll, her heart pounding as if lead and not blood moved through her system. It was the absence of that one word, not the presence of all the others that seemed to be pulling her apart thread by thread, and which made penning the letter she knew she needed to write him so much more difficult.

Her racing thoughts were stilled by the ringing of a bell and the echo of Cash’s voice up the stairs calling her to dinner. Florence set down Tom’s letters, double checking that her robe was closed before sweeping down the stairs and joining her two friends at the table on the back porch and losing herself in a delicious plate of chicken and dumplings.

.

.

.

It is two days later that Florence finally works up the nerve to write to Tom and explain that she has been promoted – that she will spend at the least all of the next year into the spring of ’47 training Albion alongside her father before she will be free to move anywhere. Florence must remind herself that Tom had promised her a few years – they were too young, and she was not ready for such a move – and yet Florence could not shake off the overwhelming guilt that somehow she was adapting to life outside of their time at Hogwarts better than he was. She sends the eagle off early in the morning, apparating to the greenhouses immediately afterward so that she can distract herself with the intricacies of growing lifeforms and the beauty of unfurling song.

When the next week passes without response, Florence assures herself that it was too soon for a response, that he would have to work through his anger and that it is unfair to expect Tom to accept her rejection of an impending movie to England. Yet when two weeks, and then three pass without word, a hardness seems to settle in Florence’s chest, like a rock lodged between her ribs. April turns into May, and with it the air warms – this time without the magic of the Allman estate, and still Florence has not heard from Tom. Lizzie’s wedding draws closer, the weeks ticking away until soon the impending nuptials are closer than they are farther, and still she has not heard.

Florence sees Tom in everything. His silence hums in every curl of wind, the wave of his hair in the darkening shadows across the floor, his eyes in the sky just before blackness consumes the horizon. Her mother asks her if she is well, and Florence smiles and instead buries herself in her work, ingratiating herself deeper into the magic that had shaped her thus far, which seemed to carry her now that something externally had failed.

And then one day Tom is there, as if he has always been there, his narrow, towering figure a sliver of shadowed chaos detaching itself from against the back wall of her house where he leans as she returns from the fields. Florence halts upon the grass, her vision suddenly glazed as he moves across the lawn, his robes billowing around him like raven’s wings. _How is he here? How could he be silent, and then just be here, and if he’d wanted to visit what kept him so long?_

Florence does not have any answers, and Tom reaches her before she can decide if she wishes to be angry or leap into his arms. His face is narrower than she has ever seen it, each plane of his façade sharper although she had not considered it possible, but his magic abounds from his slender frame like a wide cast net, enveloping every surface of her skin in a smothering blanket, singeing her down to Florence’s core. Tom’s eyes seem to burn like coals buried deep beneath the earth’s surface, his head falling just slightly to the side as he looms before her, at once impenetrable and terrifying.

“Tom,” she whispers, because like every other moment in her life where she is overcome by his beauty, by the sheer force that is his presence, there is nothing else to say. The dusty rose line that is his lips whitens, as if he bites back a retort, and the stone lodged between Florence’s ribs only grows heavier.

“Your brother, has he moved here yet?” Tom asks after what feels like an eternity. Florence blinks once, and then nods, the joints in her neck popping as she moves.

“Yes, Albion arrived with Margaret two weeks ago.”

“And you say it will take you one year to train him alongside your father?” Tom’s voice was like sandpaper across stone, grating and unbearable with the weight, and yet she’d missed him so desperately that even this warped version of the voice that melted her into nothingness was better than the silence that she had suffered. Florence nods again, this time the motion more self-assured.

“One year,” she agrees, and she knows what he is really asking because his eyes flash red and his lip quivers for a moment. For the first time she notices that his perfectly shaped curls seem slightly dull, as if their usual sheen has been buffed and broken by time.

“ _Florence,_ ” is all Tom murmurs in response, and he at last, _at last_ reaches for her, his hands cupping her face, his lips insistent upon her own, the thrill of magic that races down Florence’s spine like a shot of the most potent Firewhiskey and a current that is entirely Tom. Florence’s fingers tangle in his shirt, in his hair, her body shaking with the months and months of repressed agony his distance has put her through.

“Why didn’t you write me back?” Florence whispers against his jaw when he pulls away slightly, his chest rising and falling beneath her palms as if he’d run a marathon or perhaps across the sea itself.

“I was angry,” he admits, his voice more like the velvet that she remembers when she is lost in memory.

“It was cruel,” Florence tells him, and she tugs slightly on his hair so that he is forced to meet her gaze. “Do not do it again.”

“One year,” he mutters in response before kissing her again. It is not the patience he promised her that night in the Head Boy’s quarters nearly a year ago, but Florence could not deny that some part of her ego seemed to preen at his desperate need for her. She could not deny, also, that the thought of Tom seeking her hand in marriage at barely twenty sent waves of panic spiraling down her system.

“I missed you,” he whispers against her throat, his voice so quiet Florence thinks for a moment she has imagined it. But no, Tom’s body is too stiff in his uncertainty at having admitted such an open emotion that Florence knows the words were more than figments of her imagination. Tom’s shoulders are braced as if he is prepared to fight, his voice so near silence that Florence understands he’s waited to speak these words into existence only when he can insure that she will be the only one to ever hear them. Her hands twitch upon his body, and the tension she has been holding within herself for the past months without him fades away at once.

“Of course,” Florence murmurs, feeling laughter bubble up within her, unbidden yet unstoppable. There is the slightest tinge of pink across Tom’s cheeks, and Florence cannot resist tracing her finger over it, admiring the way his porcelain skin glows in the first rays of sunset.

It was hard to stay mad at Tom Riddle when he put everything she had ever known to shame. Impossible even.

.

.

.

Lottie Greengrass was assigned to show Florence to her room when she arrived at the Greengrass estate two days before Lizzie’s wedding. As a witness to the ceremony, she was expected to be a part of all the preceding dinners and celebrations, to give long toasts, and to participate in the private ceremony before the public reception. There, Florence alongside the other selected witnesses and family members would help to weave the bonding spell that would officiate their nuptials – a spell Florence had practiced incessantly over the past few weeks until she was confident she would be able to perform.

“I cannot _wait_ for you to see Lizzie’s dress,” the younger Greengrass daughter chimed, leading Florence up the now familiar grand staircase and down the hallways to the bedroom she had been assigned at Samhain so long ago. “Pyrrhus is going to lose his eyes when he sees her.”

“I hope so,” Florence agrees good naturedly, recognizing Lottie’s excitement as the same joy Florence herself had fostered for Albion and Margaret’s wedding. There were few things in the world as affirming as seeing someone you love taking a step towards lasting happiness.

“I got to help mother make the seating arrangements for tonight’s dinner,” Lottie continues without pausing for breath. “You’re sitting at the head table two seats down from me, and between Philip Burke and your boyfriend.” Here, the young girl turned and gave Florence a dazzling smile that was completely at odds with the typically somber expression the Greengrass women bore. “Lizzie says you’ll be the next to get engaged.”

“Lizzie should probably learn to keep her mouth shut,” Florence countered, blustering slightly at the words. Lottie’s mouth turned down in a pout.

“My mom says Tom Riddle is quite the catch, and I hear all the ladies at her supper club talking about him too.”

“Yeah, Tom’s something,” Florence murmurs, irked by the heat that fans across her face and neck. It was strange to remember that she was the talk of gossip across the Atlantic now as well as in Spectre, although it was not a fact she resented. Florence had always enjoyed being the center of attention.

“If you get married, can I come to the wedding?” Lottie asks, clapping her hands together as they watch one of the Greengrass house elves begin to unpack Florence’s things.

“Lottie,” a sharp voice rings from behind them, and Florence turns to find her friend standing with her arms crossed, blond hair swept back over her shoulders with a careless movement. “Don’t be a nag. Go help mother direct the florists – they’ve just arrived.”

The young Greengrass frowned, but agreed and disappeared from the room, leaving Elizabeth free to sweep Florence into a hug.

“I don’t know _where_ she gets her tongue from. When she’s around mother, she manages to keep her questions at bay, but the moment she’s set loose she’s as bad as you and your American sensibilities prattling on all the time,” Lizzie teases, kissing each of Florence’s cheeks before leaning back to take a look at her. “You look well.”

“Hard labor six days a week will do that to you, I suppose,” Florence jests, feeling the stretch in her cheeks as her smile expands across her face. “It’s a good thing too – June and Cash feed me enough for six grown men I think.”

“Well, you’ll be well fed this week too. Just wait until my mother gets a hold of you to talk about all her hard ordered plans,” Lizzie comments dryly, but even Florence can see the hardly repressed spark deep in the summer blue gaze.

“So dinner tonight, reception tomorrow afternoon followed by dinner at the Avery’s, and then the bonding ceremony the _following_ morning with the reception here,” Florence states, running through the itinerary and taking the proffered glass of wine from one of the house elves and seating herself. Lizzie takes the second and does the same.

“Yes, it’ll be exhausting but we’ve combed over the guest lists for each event and I think you’ll have enough people here to catch up with that it’ll be a good time.”

“Lizzie, you’re getting married! I wouldn’t have to know a soul to enjoy myself,” Florence assures her friend, their glasses clinking loudly across the stone floor as they cheers each other.

“So was my sister able to pry anything out of you regarding you and Riddle’s intentions?” Lizzie asks, her voice a shade more controlled as her gaze dulls slightly. Florence’s face burns with the uncomfortable itching of flaming pride.

“Of course not, there’s nothing to talk about,” Florence snaps. Lizzie rolls her eyes.

“He came by here two weeks ago just to make sure that he was seated beside you for every single meal over the next few days. He even weaseled his way into the private ceremony, and I can assure you that it has nothing to do with wanting to watch myself and Avery be bonded.”

Florence feels her mouth fall open slightly as she rushes to swallow the mouthful of pale yellow liquid. _He’d had the nerve to order a bride around at her own ceremony? What was Tom thinking?_

“Can I apologize for his rudeness on his behalf?” Florence mutters, horrified. She knew Tom held a certain amount of resentment for the upper echelons of wizarding society, but this seemed unnecessarily rude, even to Florence’s own low standards. Lizzie waves away her hand.

“No, no. Don’t worry. We’d already seated you two together, and I think he’s just taking your separation hard. There’s no need to worry,” Lizzie assures, but Florence misses the tightness around her summer blue eyes, and desperate not to discuss any further, Florence changes the topic.

The night’s dinner – the smallest of the myriad of events the Greengrass’ and Avery’s had planned – was full of the most lavishly decorated members of British wizarding society. Tom arrived in his usual black dress robes, sweeping Florence across the floor and introducing her to a variety of members of the Wizengamot or other notable families. Florence tried not to be relieved when she was introduced to Walburga Black and her brothers, finding the woman lacking in everything from looks to decorum, a smugness settling about Florence’s shoulder that had Tom’s lip quirking with a poorly hidden smirk as he recognized her pride brimming to the surface as she surveyed the other woman.

When she was pulled away to discuss the upcoming several days with Lizzie and her mother, Florence watched Tom from the corner of her eye. Person after person approached him, some offering differential little bows, others shaking his hand. Tom’s face was impassive, his eyes more often than not upon Florence than those vying for his attention, and yet she could not shake the nagging, tickling sensation at the back of her brain. _How do all these people know him? Why are they so desperate to meet a shopkeepers assistant?_ But it took only a brush of his fingers down her spine and a few glasses of champagne to calm her thoughts. Florence attributed it to their months apart, and within a few hours, she was wound so tightly around his arm that when the party ended well after midnight, Florence tugged him up the stairs and into her borrowed bedroom rather than allowing him to leave her even for the night.

“Do you want a big wedding like this?” Florence asks, egged on by the warm pooling of alcohol within her stomach. Tom’s face is pressed into her neck, his body partially covering hers so that her hands have free access to his back. Her fingers trace up and down the ridges of his spine, along the planes of lithe muscles, palms pressing into the warmth there.

“I have never considered it,” Tom says, a hint of stiffness sliding into his body, his words tickling the delicate skin where her neck met her shoulder.

“Consider it now,” Florence commands, smiling to herself even in the darkness. How strange that he’d offered to shape the world for her, but they had never discussed something so mundane as their wedding – at least not outright. But then again, there was nothing _normal_ about Tom, of course he would be more inclined towards deep, abounding statements of adoration instead of daily, humane acts of commitment.

“I have only ever considered a wedding as a means for making you mine,” Tom whispers, propping himself up on his elbow so that their eyes can meet. He traces down her arm, pressing his thumb to her finger where his ring will one day sit. Florence’s breath catches in her throat, her eyes riveted to the bob in his Adam’s apple. “I could care less for the wrappings so long as the end result is that we are one, that your everything is mine.”

Florence twists her hand in his so that their fingers lace together.

“I want to get married in America,” she whispers, never looking away from his gaze which is hard and soft simultaneously. In the shadowed half-light of the moon, his weight loss is more pronounced, his face like a multi-faceted jewel.

“Alright,” he rumbles, and he presses his lips once, then twice to her own before returning his head to her shoulder and settling back into a position to sleep.

As his breathing steadies beneath her, Florence wonders if perhaps in another world, where she was not subjected to the whims of her father, where Tom would be happy chasing her across the ocean and not vice versa, if he would have asked her to marry him then. She knew what her answer would be, if she’d been allowed to give it, but the question was never posed, and Florence instead buried her nose into his hair and chased Tom into dreams.

.

.

.

Lizzie’s ceremony is a blur in Florence’s memory as she tries to sort through the sensations that had poured through her days later. There had been wonder at the smile that graced her friend’s features when Lizzie’s eyes found Pyrrhus’s, at the abounding grin that was matched upon Avery’s features – for once gentle instead of canine. Never before had the haughty Greengrass appeared so soft, egged on by the demure white gown which made her appear like a vision of heaven’s highest peak. Tears had sprung in Florence’s eyes the moment she’d first beheld Cadmus Greengrass and Lizzie appear at the edge of the ceremony space, and her eyes had remained moist for the remainder of the ceremony.

There had also been the burning sensation Tom’s gaze had left along her body as midnight eyes followed Florence’s every moment. Seated in the second row of chairs, he’d watched her with the unnatural determination of a predator, the smirk that was plastered there often melting into an almost feral growl, as if he was resisting the urge to pounce upon Florence in front of the gathered crowd.

And above it all had been the magic, the warm, encompassing sensation of electricity that stretched through her tired muscles and made her mind feel as if she was floating along the stirring tune that emanated from the quartet seated at the back of the room. The entire ceremony was a spell – spoken in binding Latin, both families first releasing their children from their familial bonds before those selected witnesses joined their voices in weaving the new spell. Pyrrhus’ and Elizabeth’s hands were wrapped around one another, a white light spilling out from between their fingers as the words of the bonding spell continued to grow. Florence could feel her tears spilling down her cheeks and onto her gown as the verses slid from her mouth, her throat raw with the emotions that flitted through and about her. _To the beginning of your happiness_ Florence thought as the final phrase left her tongue and the light between the now married couple’s hands grew and then flashed like lightning, blinding everyone momentarily before returning and settling deep into their skin. Both Pyrrhus and Lizzie’s skin seemed to glow, and then Lizzie let out an unusual giggle and they pressed their lips together, sealing the magic in place.

Florence’s eyes found Tom as the magic became defined, almost tangible, and she felt the stirring in her gut at the awe she saw etched into the lines of his jaw, the storm in his gaze. Without question she knew he too was wondering what the bonding magic would feel like, if it would burn or if it was reminiscent of euphoria – that sitting here now, he wanted to feel it with Florence. She smiled at him, abashed by the uninhibited desire that swirled across his face, thrilled that she was the center of his thoughts at all times.

The ceremony takes place under a massive open walled tent that is magically enchanted within so that the flowers perfume is more pungent, the ceiling painted like the finest Renaissance painting with moving clouds and spiraling little cupids who smiled and waved the guests. Florence and Philip enter behind Pyrrhus and Lizzie, arm and arm as they watch their friends spiral onto the center of the dance floor for the opening song.

“I’ve never seen Avery look so happy in my life,” Philip comments, but Florence notes there is no bitterness there.

“Which Avery?” She teases, admiring the way Lizzie’s skirt fans out from her as she spins.

“Both,” Philip admits without missing a beat. “Should we join them? Lizzie will murder us if we don’t get the dancing started,” Philip offers, holding out his hand palm up. Florence acquiesces and allows herself to be swept out onto the floor, both Pyrrhus’ and Elizabeth’s parents joining them upon the teak floor as well.

“How is working in America?” Florence asks as they turn, unable to rip the smile off of her face. Philip glances down at her, his own easy smile spread across his face. His jaw seems wider, his hair somewhat more cropped, at nineteen more of a man that Florence had ever truly considered before.

“Nice. Your brother was a real ace getting me his job when he left to take over the farm,” Philip says, his eyes crinkling as he chuckles.

“Well, he’s not running the farm _yet_ ,” Florence growls. “I have plenty to teach the idiot.”

“Aye, go easy on him, won’t you? We can’t all sing trees into existence.”

“So now you’re defending Albion?” Florence asks, raising a brow at Philip as she turns under his arm.

“Someone has to protect him from you,” Philip returns, but his hand is gentle upon Florence’s waist and he sweeps her across the floor off tempo and laughing.

As they move, Florence’s gaze moves across the watching crowd. Without thinking she is looking for Tom, and soon enough finds him surrounded by no less than ten young men, each in expensive black dress robes with carefully manicured hair and some holding drinks. She notes as they spin that each man is arranged around Tom, staring at his porcelain face as he speaks with expressions approaching reverence. Nott is present, Lestrange to Tom’s right, as well as many others Florence has never seen before.

“Who is Tom talking too?” Florence asks, turning to look back at Philip. The sandy haired boy’s face pales for just a moment, but his smile does not falter.

“Bunch of ex-Slytherins,” he explains. “That tall blonde bloke is Abraxas Malfoy, and the Blacks are there too.”

“Ah,” Florence murmurs in response, but unsure why the sight of the young men leaning in to hear what Tom is saying unnerves her so, as if a splinter driving under her skin. _You’re just jealous he is giving them attention_ she tells herself, but even to Florence who feels possessive of Tom’s smallest thoughts and movements the words ring hollow.

At last the song ends, and without hesitation Florence approaches the brooding group of young men. Pushing between two chattering grandmothers somewhat rudely, Tom’s eyes at last find Florence’s when he hears the women’s indignant squawks, and he falls silent, watching her approach with the same animalistic desire he’d held when the ceremony began. The young men gathered around him turn to see where his gaze had landed, but wisely they remain silent.

“Tom,” Florence calls out, her voice loud to her own ears as she steps into the middle of the silent circle. She swallows slightly as the usual clean scent of him washes over her, heat pooling in her abdomen as she recalls the way his hands had moved across her skin in their shared shower. Tom smirks when he sees the flush creeping across her skin, and Florence rolls her eyes at him if only to preserve a semblance of dignity.

“Florence,” Tom murmurs, and his voice curls and weighs upon her heart, a comfortable warmth that Florence missed during every beat of quiet. She wraps her arm through his, resting her head on the point of his shoulder and at last turning to face the semicircle of young men facing them. Unabashed, several of the men are peering at her with varying levels of questions in their gaze. Florence meets their eyes without blinking, accustomed to high-brow, society men who thought they could intimidate her.

“Hello, gentlemen,” she says after having the chance to meet each of their stares first, letting her voice ring out low and loud. Beside her Tom shifts his weight onto the other hip, his eyes tracing the profile of her face as his smirk becomes sinful.

“This is Florence Allman,” Tom says, gesturing to her even as his eyes remain locked onto her face. “Florence, these are some of my peers from before your time at Hogwarts.” The word _peer_ makes Florence snort before she can stop herself, and embarrassed at the sound that has left her, she turns to meet Tom’s gaze meeting his smirk with a raised brow. Both of them know that he considers no one his peer – no one that is besides her.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Florence says after a moment, but like the man she is wrapped around, her eyes never leave Tom’s face.

“Would you like a drink?” Tom asks, his voice quiet as he leans closer to her. Florence’s breath catches in her throat, and she nods. Under the pale light of the tent, the ring of sky blue that surrounds Tom’s pupil has morphed into a tender periwinkle, and Florence has the strange urge to run her fingers over his brows and eyelids, to melt into the color there.

“Lestrange,” Tom commands, breaking the moment. “Fetch Florence a glass of champagne, Firewhiskey for myself. If they don’t have champagne then white wine will suffice.”

At once the hooded gaze of Leonidas Lestrange disappears from the circle as he moves to obey the order, leaving Florence to once more take in the young men gathered. She can see from their shifting stances and serious gazes that they are unsure how to carry on with Florence now a part of their gathering, as if she had interrupted something. The splinter that had slid between her ribs, driving unease into her veins while dancing with Philip, seems to grow.

“So, what did I interrupt?” Florence asks, smiling at the Slytherins assembled. Tom’s arm slides out of Florence’s so that he may instead trace his finger up and down the side of her neck. Over her head where Florence cannot see him, Tom’s face becomes thunderous, threatening oblivion upon the fool who misspeaks now.

“We were simply catching up,” Abraxas Malfoy says with the smooth confidence of someone accustomed to every privilege in life. “It has been some time since we have all been together.”

“I see,” Florence says with a smile that does not reach her eyes. There is something too familiar in the manner which the men gather around Tom for her to believe that it has truly been any significant amount of time since they were last assembled. Why Abraxas is lying, though, Florence does not know. The knot in her stomach intensifies. Seconds later Lestrange returns, passing Florence and Tom their respective drinks.

“Let’s go for a turn about the room,” Florence offers, but her voice is harder than she intended, as if in command. Tom smirks, but takes her arm in his and leads her around the perimeter of the tent without question. The gentlemen watch them go in silence, and only once they are on the other side of the dance floor does Florence relax, pacified by the fact that Tom had chosen her over them – whoever and _whatever_ they were. As they watch Lizzie and Pyrrhus dance upon the floor, Tom pulls her to a stop, his arms wrapping around her waist from behind so that his chin can rest upon her shoulder. Beside them, an elderly couple frowns at the display.

“One year,” he whispers into her ear, and Florence shivers in response because his voice is not full of desire or promise – his voice is a threat.

“One year,” she repeats, her eyes never leaving the spinning couple on the dance floor. Cold seeps into her limbs, and her hand shakes around her flute of champagne. Toms fingers sink into her skin as if he is imbedding his claws into her flesh, as if he might never let her go. Perhaps he never will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, and if you feel so inclined, let me know your thoughts!!


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am actually sweating a bit before publishing this I'm so nervous about how this chapter and the next will go over. We've reached a point in the story I have been picturing since I began writing this summer, and I'm so excited and simultaneously terrified to share it with you I feel slightly dizzy. This chapter is Florence's POV, and the next will be Tom's if you are curious. Also, I think this is the longest chapter I have ever written, a clear sign that I have agonized over this chapter for too long. I decided it was better to just go ahead and publish instead of over thinking things lol. 
> 
> Thank you endlessly to the people who took time to comment on the last chapter and who are still reading. I cannot express how much it means to me that you are still here even though I took off 3/4 of a month from writing. I hope this and the next chapter live up to your expectations!!

**Chapter 45**

“His descent was like nightfall.”   
― Homer, The Iliad

“Liam is coming over for drinks this week,” Tallulah says with a sly smile during dinner on Saturday evening, spooning a heaping serving of mashed potatoes onto her plate before allowing the house elf to move on to serve Florence.

“Oh? And is this the first time he’s come over for dinner?” Florence chuckles, noting the gleam in her friend’s eye across the table. Beside Tallulah, Forsythe rolls his eyes before giving Florence an easy smile, as if sharing in a joke with her on his younger sister’s behalf.

“The sixth,” Tallulah clarifies with obvious delight.

“Dallas Parker is probably crying himself to sleep somewhere.”

“He’s old news,” Tallulah says, waving her hand before following this comment with a bite of her pork chop.

“Didn’t realize men were like newspapers, arriving and then getting thrown out the next morning,” Forsythe accuses.

“Nervous Mary Helen is going to throw you out?” Tallulah asks. Florence feels the alcohol burn in her throat as she coughs, her face reddening as the words sink in.

“ _Mary Helen_ ,” she splutters, laughing in surprise. “The same Mary Helen who’s been hunting for you for years?” Across the table, Forsythe’s tanned skin reddens as his eyes trace the intricate silver candelabra in the middle of the table like he has never before seen something so beautiful.

“The very same,” Tallulah cries with obvious delight. “Forsythe’s been seeing her for _two months_.”

Florence feels herself break into the widest grin of the evening. Forsythe, the notorious recluse, with a girlfriend? It is a pleasant surprise, and one that softens the place he held with her heart. She who woke most mornings longing for the embrace of her significant other would not with that pain upon anyone, let alone a friend.

“That’s wonderful news, Forsythe! What started it all?” Florence asks, hoping that her smile will encourage him to speak.

“Ah, well,” Forsythe says, smiling at his glass of wine as he takes a sip. Compared to his large hands, the glass seems to be made for a child it was so small within his grasp. “Didn’t want my mom to have a heart attack if I stayed single much longer, and Mary Helen isn’t so bad once you get to know her.”

“And he couldn’t wait on you forever,” Tallulah smirks, ducking as her brother attempts to hit her across the back of her head.

“Speaking of, how’s Tom?” Forsythe asks, attempting to move past his sisters comment with a modicum of dignity. Florence feels her stomach roil and then harden at the sound of the name, the ache that follows her constantly these days reemerging. To hide her pause, she takes a bite of potato before speaking.

“He’s well. His work has increased so it’s been harder for him to get away and visit, but I’m glad he has more to do since I have been so busy with work as well,” Florence explains with a small shrug as if it would lighten the weight upon her shoulders. “Distance is a bear.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Tallulah asks, and her previously cheerful tone is somewhat subdued. Her fork settles on her plate with a loud _clink_.

“Two months,” Florence replies, and her voice is so tight it is a wonder that any sound came out at all. “But we have written, and we do the best we can.”

“All the same,” Forsythe interjects, and his eyes are soft. “I’m sorry for the distance. Y’all don’t deserve that hardship.”

“Well, we can’t all marry hometown sweethearts,” Florence says, attempting a smile to lighten the mood. Tallulah’s responding snort tells her she has succeeded, at least a little bit. Silence falls for a moment as all three of them dive into their dinners, and Florence lets her mind stray to where it always does – Tom. They had seen each other with a relatively constant schedule, every two to three weeks over the course of the summer and into the fall after Lizzie’s wedding, but as the weather had turned colder Borgin had finally begun to entrust Tom with some of his most prized clients, and their trips had slowed to a trickle, and around the start of November they had stopped entirely. It was neither his fault nor her own, a regrettable fact of a life spent on other sides of the globe which she came to detest more and more each day. She spent her waking hours alongside Albion and her father, teaching him every facet of life upon the farm, and Tom was sent to the finest manor homes in England and abroad, haggling for antiques and priceless valuables, sometimes for weeks on end. There was not time for either of them to visit, at least not at the same time, and no matter how many dreams she awoke from sweating and panting his name, it did not change the fact that Tom was not in the bed beside Florence.

Their last few weekend visits had been pure agony, the meager days they’d had together almost worse than their time apart. How could they live off of stolen days together, how could they share every moment with the other that they had missed? At least when they were apart they understood the other’s suffering, but when they were together, both Florence and Tom became sharp and resentful, faced with the reality of their situation, of the hours and minutes they had lost to time. _Ten thousand lifetimes with him would not be enough_ Florence thinks, staring down at her half eaten dinner, appetite long gone.

“Well, maybe you should just surprise him. I know you both have crazy schedules, but if you just show up he’ll have no choice but to make time for you,” Tallulah suggests. Florence laughs upon hearing the words, but considers it may not be the worst suggestion she has ever received. Tom’s need for control meant that unless he could dedicate the entire weekend together, he insisted that Florence not come to England or him travel to Georgia. _What good does only an afternoon with you do me_ he’d asked her over the last weekend they had spent together back in October. _It only makes me feel ill when you’re gone, as if it has been some fevered dream from which I’ve awoken._ Florence had held no response to this. What was there to say?

“Hmm, maybe I will,” Florence replies, but as she sits, the words seem to burrow further into her being, forming into a half-considered idea, and then a fully-fledged hope. _What is to stop me from going there now, after dinner? I have the money, and I have yet to take vacation days except for Lizzie’s wedding. I could visit for the week…_ When Florence returns to the conversation, both Forsythe and Tallulah are giving her knowing looks.

“Get out of here, we both know what you’re thinking, and if you’re about to go buy an international portkey at six in the evening you’ll at least need to pack first,” Forsythe jests, but his face is gentle with the absence of judgement.

“When you two are tangled in the sheets, remind Tom that it was my idea for you to surprise him,” Tallulah snickers, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. Florence’s face turns red as a beet, but with a knowing smile, she gets to her feet and scampers around the table to wrap Tallulah in a hug.

“You’re dreadful.”

“Yes, mother reminds me of that every day,” Tallulah agrees evenly.

“Be safe,” Forsythe calls out as Florence dashes down the hall and into the parlor where the fireplace and accompanying Floo powder wait for her.

Stumbling out of the flames and into her own home seconds later, Florence moves with near blinding speed, calling out for June and Cash as she takes the stairs two at a time. They appear with an echoing _crack_ at the top of the stairs, skittering out of the way as Florence dashes between the two of them.

“Missy Florence,” June calls, pattering across the carpet after her. “Whys is you running around at such an hour? We’s did not expect you home so early!”

“I’m going to visit Tom!” Florence shouts over her shoulder, skidding to a halt within her room and throwing open her wardrobe. “Help me pack please? I need enough clothes for a week, evening and casual wear.”

Both June and Cash bow low before scurrying across the hardwood floors in determined, practiced movements. Florence’s lungs burn, adrenaline pumping through her veins. _Two months apart, but that ends tonight_. The thought made her so giddy that Florence broke into spontaneous laughter on several occasions, both house elves casting her worried looks. His ring on her finger was like ice upon burning flesh, and with a fond smile, she packed away the blue velvet box which contained the necklace Tom had given her before her debut. In record time she is packed, standing before the fireplace once more with two suitcases and wrapped in a traveling cloak.

“Cash, if you’d be an angel and tell my father in the morning that I’ve decided to surprise Tom this week in England I’ll let you pick the menu for an entire month of our dinners,” Florence asks, getting to her knees before them to pull both into a deep hug.

“Of course, Missy Florence,” Cash agrees.

“And if my mother comes by,” Florence adds before stepping into the flames. “She’s welcome to come in, but don’t let her rearrange anything. I know she’s dying to get her hands on the living room layout.” Her last sight before the world disappears in a whirl of green is the two house elves waving her away, their faces bright with shared happiness on Florence’s behalf. Closing her eyes, Florence whispers the address for the Allman’s home in Savannah, and allows herself to be whisked away, thoughts of midnight eyes and black curls chasing her into nothingness.

The Surveillance Wizarding Resource Department staff member who handles her money exchange and portkey purchase laughs at the way Florence bounces from foot to foot, her gray hair pulled into tight bun and her severely lined face at odds with the smile that graces her features. She hands Florence her portkey – which is a water stained, leather bound journal – with a knowing smile, chuckling at the way Florence snatches it from her outstretched fingers.

“Got somewhere to be, or someone to meet?” The older woman croaks as Florence stuffs the portkey under her arm and glances over at the landing circle.

“Both,” Florence admits, smiling broadly at the woman.

“Well get going then,” she cheers, waving Florence towards the painted red circle just past the barrier. “I’m sure whoever it is your meeting is just as eager to see you.”

 _Yes he is_ Florence thinks with smug confidence, setting her luggage in its own transport circle before crossing into the last unoccupied red ring and waiting impatiently for the familiar jerking sensation in her navel. With a slight sense of shock she realizes it’s been less than an hour since she left the Blount’s, and in only a few minutes more she would be on English soil. _In a few minutes you’ll be in Tom’s arms_. Florence closes her eyes, picturing how she will rouse him from sleep, the way her fingers will glide across his forehead and smooth his curls before pressing her lips to his cheek, whispering his name in his ear. She almost sobs in relief when at last the journal glows blue, and her body begins to revolve on the spot, thoughts of long, delicate fingers dancing in her mind as she is lifted up and away across the sea.

She hardly notices as the Ministry of Magic wizard takes and weighs her wand, nor the strange look the luggage boy gives her when he points out that it is odd for a woman her age to be traveling alone at this time in the morning. Florence gives him a vague smile and presses a few knuts into his hand before making her way out into the street and down a side alley where no one can see her. Breathing deeply the frigid air, Florence takes one final breath and turns on the spot into apparition, her mind focused upon the foyer of Tom’s apartment.

It is dark when she arrives – hardly a surprise considering it is past midnight here in Britain. For one glorious moment she is filled with energy to be once more in the familiar space, and then her mind stills and several things become apparent to her at once.

Setting down her suitcases and drawing her wand from her pocket, Florence casts the charm Tom taught her years ago, lighting each of the sconces with small, flickering flames. Upon the table in the center of the room are stacks of mail scattered about is if sorted through in a hurry. Tom had clearly been searching for specific correspondences and left the rest here to collect the layer of dust that currently lay upon them. Frowning slightly, Florence moved down the hall before her, aware now of the smell of disuse, of must, and was that mold? Her nose wrinkles, uncomfortably aware of how loud her heels are upon the stone floors as she moves down the never-ending corridor.

Florence knows her way around Tom’s apartment as if it is hers, and she moves without hesitation, peering into rooms for signs that anyone has lived here over the past few months at the least. The last time she had been in the suite was near the end of the Summer, Tom opting to visit her in America over September and October, and each open door makes her unease grow, her chest constrict further. Dust is everywhere, the curtains drawn against the lights of London, and in the living room, she finds one of the Dittany saplings she sent him brown and withered, a shell of a once living being. Florence has to force herself to walk away after one of the leaves flutters to the floor, her eyes watering at the sight of something so lovely now dead.

Tom’s bedroom is of course empty, yet Florence had held out hope in some misbegotten part of her mind that he might still be there when she pushed the door open. Pointing her wand at the two lamps on his bedside table, warm light fills the room, highlighting the dust upon the quilt, the cobwebs in the far corners of the room.

Her tears spill over then, and without thinking Florence clambers onto the bed and falls face first into the pillow. A sob spills from her lips when she realizes that the linens have been washed since the last time Tom slept here, that even his scent is gone from this space. _You fool_ she thinks over and over until her entire body is shuddering with heaving gasps, her lungs no longer capable of drawing the needed oxygen into her body.

Self-loathing wells within her, for her own frantic need for him, for her foolish head-first dive into an unthought out and ill-considered surprise for a young man who would most likely pity her for the first, who would despise her for the second. Anger too stirs in her gut as she presses her tear stained face into his pillow. _Where is he? And why has he not told me where he is staying, if not here?_ True enough there were things she did not tell Tom, it was just part of life on separate continents, but she also knew that if she’d moved or purchased another residence, it would have registered within her to inform Tom. He’d told her he was going to carve her name into time itself, but he’d let her Dittany trees die, he’d been living elsewhere for months without telling her. _Has he forgotten me? Does he no longer need me the way he once did?_ The ache that has followed Florence since their last visit overwhelms her at last, and another wave of anguished sobs spill from her lips. 

It is several minutes later that Florence sits up upon the bed, attempting to master her tears with several rounds of deep breath.

“You can’t stay here,” she whispers to herself, her eyes tracing over the familiar framed picture of herself and Tom spinning in blissful unawareness on the bedside table. Something inside of her seems unhinged, her mind grappling with the evidence of his departure, with her mounting anxiety. _Where is he, where is he, where is he_ her mind screams over and over again, but there is no one there to answer her thoughts. Wherever Tom is, he cannot hear her, and this thought more than her two months without him makes Florence feel more alone than ever in her life.

Getting to her feet, she picks up the framed photo and makes her way back into the living room, her eyes settling once more upon the wilted sapling, a fresh wave of tears springing to her eyes. Seeing the dead tree, a being that had once thrummed with her magic, akin in Florence’s mind to her own child, felt like losing a limb or perhaps sinking inward into the pit within her stomach which had opened since her arrival in Tom’s apartment. The round leaves are no more than brown discs, parched and limp, and one brush from her hand would send them fluttering to the floor to decay. Florence stands before the Dittany tree for some time, tears running freely down her face as her mind wanders darker and darker trails.

It is as she rouses herself to return to her luggage and leave to find a place to stay that Florence notices the shift in the air. It takes no great skill too, as if someone had suddenly turned on a heating system and the air hums and crackles with swirling energy. Turning away from the tree to face the doorway, she has one breath and then a dark figure bursts through the door, wand outstretched before him, face taught and eyes red with strain as he enters the space. For one horrible second Tom’s gaze lands upon her – distant and seething, his wand still pointed at her chest – and then he seems to remember himself, in a blink his pupils returning to deep midnight, his hand falling just slightly so that the weapon points to the left of her body. Neither of them move to cover the distance between each other, Tom surely taking in the tears on her face, the hunch in her figure, Florence noting the length of his hair which stretched below his ears, the pallor of his skin. At last he speaks.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, and Florence wraps her arms around her stomach as if warding off his cool tone, protecting herself from the sharpness of his words.

“I came to surprise you,” she mutters, looking away from him, suddenly unable to bear the beauty of his visage when she is so unsettled by the emptiness of his home, the lack of concern he seems to show for her now. Florence’s eyes find the portrait of Salazar Slytherin, and with welling nausea, she looks away from this too to settle upon the coffee table before the fireplace.

“You have not been living here,” she adds bluntly, her eyes still fixed on anything but him, determined to have answers now that the reality of the reunion had already failed to live up the childish daydreams she’d formed on the way across the ocean.

“No,” he agrees, and anger spikes with her when Tom does not elaborate.

“Where have you been living, then?”

“Does it matter?” Tom asks, and Florence looks up at this, noting that he has lowered his wand arm completely.

“It matters that you did not tell me,” she accuses, and his mouth tightens. “It matters that you let my trees die.”

“Lestrange’s house elf was supposed to water them. He will be punished for the oversight.” Florence’s mouth gapes in horror.

“If you’d been here, you would have seen that they were not being cared for.”

“What does it matter where I stay?” Tom demands, the swirl of his magic stirring once more as his voice deepens in fury. “You are not here with me, and this place _haunts_ me, _Florence_. It reeks with the memory of you, and I cannot bear it!” He practically spits her name, as if she is a curse upon him and his existence. Something inside her crumbles further. She wants to rush to him, and yet something holds her back, betrayed by the very sight of him cold and unflinching, accusing her of abandoning him.

“Do you think every inch of my own home does not remind me of you? Do you honestly believe I don’t suffer every time I see your face looking back from a picture frame or I see a place where you have held me, where we read together, where we lay? Are you honestly so selfish to think that this ocean between us only bothers you?” Florence is shouting, her throat tearing as the words slither from her lungs like long withheld bullets intended to maim. With a scream she launches the picture frame in her grasp across the room at him, tears blinding her to the point that she misses Tom’s wandless flick of his hand, the photo halting in midair where he can take it and set it gently upon the table beside him unharmed.

“You are overreacting,” he grinds between his teeth, and his hands form into fists that open and close so quickly she cannot decide if he wants to strike her or fill his grasp with the solid shape of her. “I did not tell you of my residence because I did not think it mattered.”

“Of course it matters,” Florence whispers, her fire at once gone as she sinks into grief, that his life could continue on without informing her of its pieces and intricacies. “At any time, should the whim have taken you, you have always known where you can find me. If you ever appeared at my house and I was not there, you would know to check the greenhouses or my parents or even Tallulah’s, but you would never have wandered into my home to find it empty as if I no longer resided there.” Florence’s eyes return once more to the withered Dittany tree. “I walked in to find your apartment abandoned, realizing the same level of trust had not been afforded to me.”

“Florence,” Tom murmurs, and his voice is quieter this time, a return to the familiar tone that she had longed to hear for months but which now brings no peace to her racing mind. “What do you want me to say? No, I didn’t tell you I have been staying elsewhere. It never occurred to me you might drop in unexpected, and I could not spend another night in this apartment without you. Are these the weak, foolish pieces of information you want to hear from me? Are you relieved to know?” His anger mounts at the end of his tirade, at the idea that Florence is forcing him to bear emotions, to showcase any form of humanity.

“Where were you just now?” Florence demands, her eyes watching his face for any flinch. His mask is impassive, only his dilating pupils and the magic that emanates from his body any sign that he is ruffled.

“The Black’s Apartment.”

“Is that were you stay these days?”

“Sometimes,” he replies curtly.

“How did you know to return when I entered here?” This question Florence asks out of curiosity, unsure how he could have realized that she was in his quarters mere minutes after arriving.

“You are the only other person who has access to apparate in and out of the wards surrounding this apartment. I felt you arrive, and came as quickly as I could.” Tom’s tone is stiff, but she knows he is being honest from the way his voice rings, as close to pleading as someone like him will ever come. It is these facts – that she alone was privy to the space, that he had flown to her the moment he knew of her arrival – which at last still Florence’s mind, and pressing her face into her palms, she lets out a dry sob, releasing the last of her misery.

With near inhuman speed Tom is before her, enveloping her in his arms, his touch like a drug she has been craving to the point of near maddening withdrawals. Without hesitation she returns the hold, her arms snaking around his waist and nails digging into his back if only to prove that he is real, truly before her.

“I was scared when I walked in to find you gone,” she chokes into his chest, her words like bile upon her tongue. One of Tom’s hands sneaks up to cup the back of Florence’s head and tilt her face upward. Without pretense his lips find hers, hard and demanding and nothing like her dream of waking him from slumber, but all the better because this was real and that fantasy was not.

“I am here now,” he murmurs when they break apart, slightly more breathless that before. It is not an apology, but Florence does not expect to receive one. Tom is not one to admit wrong, and the hardness of his jaw suggests this time will be no different than any before.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” she says at last, having searched his face for any remaining anger and finding only cool detachment. 

“How long are you staying for?”

“The week,” Florence says with a shrug. “I took off from work, but if you are busy I can go stay with Lizzie and Pyrrhus.”

“ _No_ ,” he says, and she shivers at the harshness that appears in his tone, but a moment later he regains his control. “No - stay here. I will adjust my schedule. As you have pointed out, I like to know where you are at all times.”

“You are a hypocrite.”

“Yes,” he agrees with the easy confidence that takes her back to lessons between the two of them in the Charms classroom, leaning in to press his lips to her cheek before taking her hand and pulling her towards his bedroom. Florence follows after him, somewhat unbalanced by his change of mood when she can still feel the tracks of her tears upon her skin, the salt on her tongue. She had not forgiven him, but his explanations had eased enough of her fury to allow her to intertwine her fingers with his and follow without question. _We will talk in the morning_ she decides, a wave of exhaustion running through her.

Upon entering the room, Tom replaces the frame she had thrown at him, but Florence feels no guilt. He’d abandoned their shared space, and she felt entitled to wrecking it if that was what it took for him to remember her.

“Tom,” Florence murmurs when at last their fingers slide from each-others grasp. He draws his wand, flicking it without a sound so that in seconds, the dust and cobwebs which had horrified Florence so disappear. He does not turn at the sound of her voice, instead pulling off his robes and laying them across the back of a chair and tugging at the top button of his shirt, bearing his skin to the room. Florence feels her mouth go dry, disheartened by his ability to just move past what has occurred, at the sight of him undressing which is both so familiar and foreign now that he is changed – narrower, paler, his hair longer.

“Tom,” she calls again, and this time her voice is firmer, and his gaze connects with Florence’s through the mirror, brow raised just slightly in question. “Do not lie to me again.”

“I have not lied to you, Florence,” he hisses, his face like thunder, his words like knives as his fingers undo the last of his buttons and his shirt slides from his shoulders, leaving his chest bare to her examination. Florence can see the slightest hint of his ribs.

“Omission is the same as dishonesty if it is done with intention,” she spits back in return, and in the mirror she can see that her face is warped with fury, eyes rimmed red from crying. Tom looks away from her then, his jaw flexing as his hands move to his trousers and he steps out of his pants. Florence wants to laugh at the sight of him in his briefs and socks, bared to her bodily despite his mind being a cage of thoughts, mysteries revealed slowly if at all. Somehow, standing across the room from him still wrapped in her traveling cloak, Florence feels she is the more vulnerable, despite her layers.

“You have no right to demand anything of me, Florence. Not when you have repeatedly chosen to remain on the other side of the globe, when you have at every turn chosen your _plants_ and your _family_ over me.”

His words feel like being punched repeatedly.

“How can you say that when you promised me patience? I have always been honest with you that I intended to work upon leaving Hogwarts. What changed that makes you think so little of my decisions now?” Florence can feel yet another wave of tears surface within her, and she brushes at her eyes, looking away from him in frustration at her barely contained emotions. She does not see Tom move, but she feels his hand close around her jaw, turning her face to his. _How can someone be beautiful even in anger_ she wonders, but only the beating of her heart answers her, slow and mournful at this thing between them that threatens to break.

“I learned that I am not patient, not when it comes to you,” he whispers, and his other hand tangles in the hair at the base of her scalp, his nose drawing a line from the corner of her lip to her ear. Florence shivers in his grasp, exhausted by his mercurial emotions this evening, the way he flits from anger to sensuality like flipping a galleon. Her body feels as if it is betraying her now, leaning against his frame, her magic relishing in the brushing and melding of their spirits as it has since the day they first touched. Yet Florence’s mind feels sluggish, fractured, saddened by what has transpired, by the changes in Tom that she can see but not name which make him more distant, his masks more defined.

“Then learn it,” Florence begs, blinking back tears as she searches his gaze. “If not for me, then for you. I can’t bear seeing you like this, so angry and cold.”

For a moment the pads of his fingers sink into Florence’s jaw to the point of pain, and then he releases a breath of air, remaining silent. When he presses his lips to Florence’s, his skin is cold, the family ring he’d placed upon her finger is like a weight threatening to pull her beneath the earth and into an early grave.

.

.

.

Florence wakes in the middle of the night to the roar of thunder, the purple flash of heat lightning so potent that for a moment every plane of her room is illuminated in a ghostly light before her vision is thrown back into darkness. Sitting upright, she throws off the covers, at once aware of the rain that is pelting the roof of her home and the slamming sound that can only come from the shutters which have come loose in the wind.

“ _June! Cash!_ ” Florence cries out into the night, scrambling out of bed and tugging on a pair of work boots as she hops towards the door. _“Help me with the shutters!”_

This is the third storm this week, but from the shuddering in the very foundations of her house, Florence knows without question that this one is the most powerful. How she has managed to sleep through the sound Florence cannot fathom. _Curse summer thunderstorms_ she thinks, leaping down the stairs and pulling a raincoat on over her nightgown as she makes her way towards the front door. As a child, the gales that would rattle her windows at night in May and June had petrified her – now she worried only for the safety of her home and the creatures that resided within it. _Christ, I hope the greenhouses make it out alright_ she thinks as she throws open the front door.

Rain streams off the roof in torrents, forming rivers and pooling in muddy puddles that ripple with the fury of the pattering rain. For a moment she stands transfixed as lightning once more illuminates her front drive, but Florence is urged once more into action when she hears the snap of a shutter slamming against the side of her house. Drawing her wand, she one by one freezes the wooden panels, fumbling with wet metal bolts to lock them into place and protect her windows from the brunt of the wind and rain. Within seconds her entire body is soaked, her coat useless against the ferocity of the storm, and every curse word known to man pours from her lips as she attempts to wrestle with mother nature herself.

It is as she rounds the house to start on the side that she glances up to find a drenched figure standing in the circle before her home, lighting highlighting a black cloak and dark hair, rain having no affect upon them as they stand beneath the downpour. Fear seizes Florence as she lifts her wand, her mind racing to understand how someone could have penetrated the estate wards, or who would want to attack her on this of all nights. Yet when the figure at last moves, gliding across the ground with unnatural grace, a key slips into the lock, and a door within her mind flies open. _Tom._

“What on God’s green Earth are you doing here?” Florence yells over the storm, abandoning the swinging shutters to run to him, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside where the sounds of the storm are somewhat muffled. Tom is drenched, hair plastered to his face, lips nearly blue with cold, and he only stares at her in response. In the darkness, his eyes are pits.

“Tom?” Florence asks again, running her hands up and down his arms to warm him, her mind running through any number of reasons why he would show up unannounced in the middle of the night, but coming up blank. He was supposed to be visiting her this weekend, but it was unlike him to show up early. _And with this weather…_

Taking his hand, Florence pulls him into the first parlor, casting her wand at the fireplace so that flames spring to life. She strips his cloak from his shoulders, pushing him into a seat by the fire, uncaring that his soaked form will most likely ruin the cushions.

“Tom, please speak to me, is everything ok? Are you alright?” She begs, kneeling before him so that her elbows rest on his knees and her hands press against his stomach, knotting in the wet fabric there. His jaw flexes once, then twice, and after what feels like an eternity, he speaks.

“I finished it,” he murmurs, his voice strained. Before Florence can ask for clarification, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the now soaking copy of the _Iliad_ Florence had given him long ago. Florence stares at the blue cover, some of the gold-leaf worn away from use, and she feels her mouth fall open.

“Okay,” Florence nods, still staring at the book, her heart hamming between her ribs as she tries to parse the blank expression on his face. “But why are you here?” In all of their sometimes strange interactions, Florence feels that this one is chief in her mind, the strangest of all of them.

“You said I was like him, but I looked up what happens afterward. He dies.” Tom’s voice is shaking now, and without warning he gets to his feet, knocking Florence back onto the floor as he moves to pace across the carpet, leaving a dripping trail of rainwater with each step.

“He _dies,_ Florence,” Tom says, and his eyes are wide and his hands fist in his hair like he might rip it from his scalp at any second. “The fool chose _death._ ”

“Only bodily death,” Florence contends, sitting up upon the floor, participating in the discussion because she cannot follow his logic, why Achilles’ decision based upon the Fates offerings has offset Tom so. “He chose a name that would live on through eternity.”

“Glory,” Tom scoffs, and when he looks at her there is a crimson sheen to his gaze, his skin like milk and ash in the darkness. “What good is glory if you are dead. You said I was like him, but he is a _fool_ and a _weakling_ to succumb to death like any mere mortal.”

“Tom _what_ are you talking about? I don’t understand why this has upset you,” Florence shouts, raising her voice in an attempt to pierce the madness that swirls around him, his magic crackling with a frightening energy so potent that he is a source of more heat than the fire beside her. Tom’s gaze hardens as it meets Florence’s once more, and in a flash he is kneeling before her, his hands cupping her face so that their breath mingles between them. Up close she can see the bags under his eyes, the way his gaze jerks and shakes as he scans her face, the wrinkle in his brow.

“I am not so _human_ as to succumb to death, Florence. Do you truly think so little of me that you would compare me to that _mortal_?” He demands, his grip upon her face so painful that she tries to pull away, scrambling back upon the carpet and leaving him backlit by the flames like some arcane demon of old.

“ _You_ are mortal, Tom. _I_ am mortal. We are all mortal. I don’t know what you are talking about, and I don’t like it,” she whispers firmly. Her words have the opposite effect upon Tom, and instead of frowning, he smiles – sinful and lilting, his eyes gleaming with a red as deep as the embers at the base of the flames behind him. When he laughs, Florence closes her eyes, looking away. Things had been better between the two of them since her surprise trip to England, but this Tom is entirely new to her – terrifying and foreign and nothing like the man she had come to love. She hated him for it, for his ability to change into such unrecognizable shapes.

“Look at me, Florence,” he commands, and taking one deep breath and then another, she at last returns her gaze to his. Despite the unnatural flush that colors his cheeks, Tom’s eyes have returned to normal, his pupils no longer frothing black pools which threaten to drown her. The tension, however, does not leave her body. “I can assure you that I am not so average as your Achilles.”

“He was the greatest warrior in all of Achaea. He was faced with an impossible decision and chose between the two,” Florence counters. It feels wrong, somehow, to insult the story that they have shared for so many years now just as it feels wrong that he finished it without her, reading ahead while they were apart despite having only a few chapters remaining. _It was ours, together, but what is it now_ she wonders, her eyes tracing the hollow at the base of his throat without truly seeing him.

“I would have paved a third path, I would never have been held back by the gods, let alone the Fates,” Tom counters, and he crawls across the carpet to her until she is sprawled across her back and he crouches over her.

“It is a shame, then, that you were not posed with the question of immortality versus happiness. I would have liked to see your choice,” Florence comments dryly as he moves to brush a lock of wet hair out of her face. For some reason, this comment brings a broad smirk to his face, his hand stilling upon her skin as he drags his finger down the bridge of her nose. Florence shivers as his mask melts into one of wanton desire, and when he drops to his elbows – his lower half pressing her into the carpet – she can feel his desire elsewhere as well.

“Who knows, Florence,” he murmurs, his voice dark and sinful as he presses his lips to the pulse in her throat, his teeth scraping across her skin until she whimpers. Outside, thunder claps once more and the house rattles around them. “Perhaps you will.”

.

.

.

It is two weeks later the letter arrives, winging its way upon a magnificent red-tailed hawk that screeches and cries into the early morning sunrise. Florence steps out into her backyard to meet it, raising her arm for the predator to alight upon before untying the familiar rolled parchment with a few deft movements. Smiling at the creature, she runs her fingers over its head a few times, praising it’s strength and magnificence in the language of Adsila before thrusting her arm upwards and sending the hawk back to the sky. Florence watches until the bird disappears behind the tree line, and then returns to take a seat upon the back steps and tackle the letter.

_Florence,_

_I am writing this to you on a Friday morning, but I’m in such a hurry that I must leave the actually mailing of this correspondence to Lestrange. If it arrives later than Sunday, please inform me in your response, and I will see to it that he knows my displeasure._

_You know of my general distaste for written communication, and so what I have to say to you I will endeavor to explain as clearly as I may._

_Impressed with my work as he is securing priceless artifacts for the store, Borgin has decided to send me on an eight month journey across the continent to barter with some of the most notable magical families from Spain to Albania. While there, I will have the opportunity to study in local libraries, and have access to magic I never before considered within reach. As I write to you now, I have less than an hour before my portkey departs for France, and then in a month, on to Belgium, and then the next and the next. I am certain you who value magical knowledge similarly to myself can understand that this is an opportunity I cannot walk away from._

_There is some regret within me that I cannot approach your father for your hand as I intended this Summer, but rest assured that you are the final treasure I will look to secure at the end of my travels. You are mine Florence Allman, no matter the time or distance. I have not forgotten – see to it that you do not either._

_Because I will not be available to travel to Georgia, the second blank piece of parchment in this letter has been enchanted as part of a set. Anything you write upon yours will fade and reappear on mine – the paper’s matching pair. It has been warded against spell or elemental damage so that you may keep it with you at all times. Write to me often._

_You have left marks upon me that to this day I cannot comprehend, and it seems as time stretches on they burn all the hotter. Know that they will follow me wherever I travel, as will the memories of you I can never escape._

_Tom_

The letter falls from Florence’s grasp to reveal the thicker, more yellowed piece of parchment Tom had referenced in his letter. The sight of it makes real the words she has just read, and without thought tears spring in the corner of her eyes. _Eight months._ It had been pain of one kind during those times when they had momentarily lost touch, but another all together to know she was facing down over half a year without the magic of his presence.

And yet another, smaller part of her surged with relief – that she would have more time upon her land, that she would not be engaged in a few short months. That she might actually reach twenty years old before she made a life-altering decision to leave behind everything she had ever known.

But this relief was not strong enough to drown out the overwhelming grief that made her mind reel and spin at a thousand revolutions a minute. He’d been desperate for her, demanding her move to England, bemoaning the absence of her in his life – and yet the opportunity for education and power had arisen and without question he’d set her aside. Nausea wells in Florence’s throat, and determined not to lose her mind, she gets to her feet and steps back into the house.

In her study she reaches for her swan feather quill, setting the tip to parchment, writing the only word that can summarize the turmoil that seems to rule her in that moment.

 _Tom_ she scrawls across the top of the page, watching as after a moment the ink seeps into the paper and disappears completely from view as if it never existed in the first place. Florence blinks once, then twice, and then she feels her brows shoot up her forehead, her cheeks redden with the understanding only this word can bring.

 _Florence_ in the neat, tight script that is wholly Tom. A conversation in only two words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> absolute madness all around


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I'm updating so soon, but I have a crazy rest of this week and next week, and I know I won't be able to focus having this chapter done and hanging over my head. Consider these three recent chapters my gift to you, readers, after such time away! 
> 
> Honestly there are no words for what I'm feeling going into this. Ages ago I asked you to stay with me, to know that I have a plan for this story. I'm asking again for this here before chapter 46 for reasons that will become apparent at the conclusion of this chapter. Your comments last update meant so much to me, and I hope that after over 200,000 words of build up, everything that is about to take place will live up to your expectations. This chapter paired with this quote from Great Expectations has been in the forefront of my mind since the beginning, much like the scene of Tom freaking out about the truth of Achilles or the first night at Samhain, and I can't even begin to say how nervous/excited I am to have reached this point!!
> 
> Ok, that is enough posturing and hyping up this chapter. I hope you read and I hope you forgive any grammatical errors. I wrote this in such an emotion frenzy there were times I felt like my heart was bleeding. Thanks for being here Xx

**Chapter 46**

“Out of my thoughts! You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read, since I first came here, the rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since – on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made, are not more real, or more impossible to displace with your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil. But, in this separation I associate you only with the good, and I will faithfully hold you to that always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me feel now what sharp distress I may. O God bless you, God forgive you!”   
― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Tom stands on the front step of the house, running an impatient hand through his hair for the fourth time. His curls are longer than they have ever been, spiraling beneath his ears and falling in his eyes in the morning when he rises from his meager hour or two of sleep – all that he can manage these days, if he can sleep at all.

He should have known better than to trust Borgin. Tom had given his eight months to the man, but upon arriving back in England, palm itching to pull from his robe the pocket watch portkey Florence had given him years ago and set the dial, Borgin had looked at him with a knowing smile and handed him a series of papers with an assignment. Tom’s vision had flashed red – he’d begun to form the words that would leave the man a bleeding mess upon the floor, and then he’d seen what he was being sent to collect and his entire world had shifted into new alignment as it only had when Florence was near him. _The locket. The cup_. Whether Borgin knew of Tom’s heritage was unknown – it was possible, with the number of pureblooded cliental that could be considered regulars at the shop – but it was certain that _this_ was an assignment Tom could not refuse, his own desires to make the journey across the sea be damned.

He needed to see Florence to the point that thinking her name alone sent a bolt of agony down his spine, his breath catching in his throat until dizziness threatened.

He needed the locket like it was equivalent to the paltry, pulsing muscle within his chest – a signifier of the worth he’d been forced to prove to others for far too long.

In the end, Florence would have to wait, and that decision was how he’d found himself spending the past month between his apartment in London and the home of Hepzibah Smith. Tom smirks to himself, his hand closing around the worn piece of parchment in his pocket as he considers what awaits him today behind Hepzibah’s door. _I have something important to show you on your next visit, Tom_ she’d said with such relish, there could be no denying her intent. When the door opens and the house elf leads him into the overcrowded home, Tom’s smile is the most genuine it has ever been while on the Smith premises. Without a word he summons a bouquet of flowers behind his back, stepping across the threshold with a sense of purpose he has not felt since he saw Florence Allman standing beneath the moon on Samhain and he became determined to make her his.

Nine months of near madness, but after today, more than one dream would fall into place. The thought makes his magic abound with enthusiasm, a wreath of power so tangible that the air tingles with it, the scent of burnt metal wafting across his tongue. _Florence_ he thinks a final time before plastering the toothless smile he reserves for these meetings across his face, pulling the flowers from behind his back to present to the woman seated before him.

.

.

.

It is only a few hours later that the locket lays before him upon his bed, shining in resplendent green with the tiny cup gleaming with pale golden light beside it, two beacons that burn like sun-fire in his mind. Tom stands staring at the two objects with such a feeling of ardor he can hardly remember to breathe, let alone think. _At last, at last, at last_ he ruminates until the words form a cacophony of sound within his mind so great that he must shake himself to release the noise.

He’d always craved both items, one as a part of his heritage, the other as a sign of wealth and ability – that nothing was beyond his reach. But to have secured both at the same time, and so much sooner than he’d originally considered? Tom presses his palm to his chest, feeling for his racing pulse in order to assure himself this is not a dream. _Mine_ he thinks with such a surge of greed that his sight flickers crimson in the corners, the two Founders artifacts glistening in his vision.

The question now was only what to do with them, for it was a decision he had not thought he’d be faced with for many years. Unbidden his mind recalled the threats of Clifford Allman, the promise that he would forever deny Tom Florence’s hand in marriage if he proceeded down the path of Horcrux creation upon which he’d begun.

Standing before the locket etched with an ornate green _S_ , the idea that anything could stop him, let alone a tired old farmer, was preposterous.

He’d just secured two of the four Founders objects with nothing more than his charm, a few well-placed smiles. What control did Clifford Allman think he held over Tom who held power in his magnetism alone, not to mention his magical prowess? Florence had already committed herself to Tom, the idea that even without her father’s blessing she would choose to walk away from the magic they shared? Ridiculous. Florence had stood before the effigy of Salazar Slytherin and eaten the spoon fed lie crafted just for her, she’d written to him every day after work after he’d written to say that he was going abroad for eight months – diligent even when he did not respond for weeks at a time. Florence, who had given his magic life through his Dittany tree, who had given him laughter and kindness and other human sentiments that Clifford Allman could not withdraw under any circumstance.

Suddenly Tom’s chest is burning, and he ducks to the side as his system attempts to dry heave, but there is nothing in his stomach. Like his inability to sleep, he’d found that food no longer held any pleasure for him, that he hardly needed to eat. _I am sustained by my dreams alone. By thoughts of Florence._

A moan slips from his throat before he can stop himself. _Florence._ It had been a hell he had never considered to be away from her for such a time, even as he studied in the most prominent libraries across the continent he could not stop the tremors that would wrack his body when he caught a whiff of coffee, the surges of lust when he caught a flash of tanned skin that could never be _her_. He had suffered for months without her, sometimes to the brink of madness, but it had all been worth it because now he had the locket of Salazar Slytherin, the cup of Helga Hufflepuff. As he studies the two prizes before him, Tom remembers how he would watch the parchment for hours, searching for the familiar slanted writing that meant wherever she was she was thinking of him. When his need for her had grown too great to be contained, he would apparate into far away forests and burn trees to the ground or crucify the creatures of the wood until his bloodlust was satisfied and he could remember her name without blinding pain.

“I have undergone much, Florence, but it will all be worth it for what we will gain in the end,” Tom says to no one in particular, running his finger across the face of the locket. It is cold to his touch. Perhaps she could wear the locket as she wore his ring, maybe the cup with his beating soul would be their wedding chalice.

Tom feels himself break out into a smile that stretches from one corner of his face to the other. If he had looked in the mirror, he would have found that he looked quite deranged with deep bruises under his eyes, hair mussed and wild after apparating away from the Smith residence and the false memory he’d planted within Hokey’s memory. _I have suffered nearly three years without her constant presence, but today I am beholden to nothing and no one_. With a sense of conviction, Tom reaches for the locket before him, his mind already recalling the incantation that he has used only twice before.

Today, he would take another step towards immortality, and then he would travel to Georgia and claim for himself that person magic itself had gifted him.

When he says the spell, a long and complex Latin phrase he memorized years ago, he closes his eyes, and unbidden he remembers the warmth of Florence’s skin beneath his fingers, the tears in her eyes at the Symphony, the way her laughter melds with birdsong when they walk through the Dittany fields. Tom whispers the spell that will make him into a living god, and he thinks only of the way her hair gets caught in her mouth when she sleeps, the way her fingers drive into his scalp, how Florence feels pressed against him as they read on the sofa or in bed or anywhere. Tom offers his magic and his soul to the locket before him, but his mind has space only for Florence’s smile, for the way she’d told him he mattered simply because he _was_ , for the letters he’d kept hidden in a sealed lock box beneath his floorboards and the access she had given him alone to her family wards. Tom finishes the spell and he remembers the way she laughed with unadulterated joy when she’d taken his hands and told him she loved him swathed in white like some enchantress of old, how she managed to say his name like a song and a promise and every other thing he’d never understood too many times to recall.

Tom smiles for a moment, and then the pain hits him, and he remembers no more for a time.

.

.

.

Clifford Allman is sitting on the back porch of the main Allman estate reading the _Wizarding Times_ , his chin tucked against his chest as he scans through the various stories when Tom arrives that afternoon to ask for Florence’s hand. Tom had knocked on the front door like any gentleman would, smiling and offering Eudora Allman conjured yellow carnations, moving with easy confidence down the hall and around the Allman heart tree as one of the many house elves he could no longer remember the names of pointed toward the rocking chair where the patriarch sat. Disappearing with a _crack_ , Tom takes a deep breath and adjusts his cuffs before approaching the seated man, allowing an easy smile to spread across his face. Here upon the land of Florence’s ancestors, he can _feel_ her song pressing against the skin like a caress of tenderness. The thought that she is so near had threatened to incense him upon passing through the wards, but he’d regained control as the familiar feeling of conviction settled over his shoulders like a mantle.

“Mr. Allman,” Tom calls out, letting his voice deepen and his hands clasp before him, hoping that none of his impatience is audible in his tone. Clifford peers to his left, umber eyes meeting Tom’s midnight, and the worn face breaks into a hearty smile as he throws aside the paper and gets to his feet.

“Tom! What a surprise, have you gone to see Florence yet? I know she’s getting desperate to see you,” the man cries in his easy, southern drawl that grates upon Tom’s nerves like nothing else does. _Desperate to see you_. Clifford’s words reverberate through his mind for a moment before he can stow the smirk that threatens his visage. Not even the hand that claps him on the shoulder or the overly vigorous handshake can deter Tom from his mission.

“No sir, I haven’t been to see Florence yet,” he says with perfect poise, careful to enunciate each word with practiced diction. “I just returned from my assignment and I’d hoped to speak to you before going to see her, that is if you are available?”

Clifford’s typically stoic face deepens into a lined smile, and he nods, stepping before Tom and waving over his shoulder in a motion that clearly says _follow_. Tom does, content that after today, he will never again be beholden to the man before him again.

“ _Kristofferson_ ,” the patriarch calls out as they walk back into the house. At once the elf is there, clapping and smiling at the sight of Tom before turning his gaze to his master. “If you could, send an eagle to my study. Quick as you can if you don’t mind,” Mr. Allman requests with another smile as they move across the dark, oriental rug.

“I appreciate you taking the time to speak to me,” Tom murmurs as they step into the office, Tom once again taking in the wall-sized mural of the Allman shipping empire, the delicately tossing waves, the dotted lines that traverse the Atlantic ocean. Clifford nods, closing the door behind them, and moves across the room to open a window before seating himself behind the desk, the map stretching out behind him in what Tom hates to admit is an impressive backdrop. Seconds later an eagle swoops through the open window and settles upon the brass perch built into the mahogany desk, bringing with it the cool March air which brushes across Tom’s skin. It smells medicinal, clinically clean, and slightly sweet – all the familiar signs of a healthy and strong Dittany crop. Tom inhales deeply.

“Forgive me, I forgot I had a letter I meant to mail earlier. Thought I’d get two things done at once,” Clifford explains with an amused grin, reaching into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulling out a sealed scroll, attaching it to the eagle’s leg with practiced ease before the bird disappears once more out of the open window and the two men are left with nothing but silence between them.

Tom crosses his leg, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. He’d been forced to cast a variety of charms on his visage to hide the bags beneath his eyes and the point of his cheekbones, the spell he’d cast earlier today leaving him weak and deathly pale. But it was worth it so as not to arouse unnecessary suspicion from the man before him.

“So, Tom, what can I do for you?” Clifford asks, rocking back in his chair and lacing his fingers over his stomach like he is preparing to enter into a business discussion with him. Tom smiles – he’s gotten very good at negotiations over the past few years.

“Well sir, without wishing to come across as too blunt, you are aware that I have been courting Florence with the intention of marrying her since we left Hogwarts.” Tom begins, his words easily falling from his tongue because he has practiced this speech countless times – at night when he could not sleep, or walking up and down the aisles of the innumerable libraries he had perused over the past months. Clifford nods, but does not speak, indicating that he would like for Tom to continue. Tom leans against the hard back of his chair, picking at a piece of white lint that clung to his robe.

“I have come now to make good on that intention, and to ask you for Florence’s hand in marriage. I had hoped that after so long apart, I might be able to return to her with more than good news, but a gift as well.”

Tom smiles as the words hang between them, Clifford’s eyes drifting from his face and back to the window, clearly considering Tom’s words slowly, peeling apart each sentiment within his incessantly dull, sun-addled, farmer’s mind. It is nearly five minutes later, by which point Tom feels that he might overturn the table and burn the home to the ground, that Clifford’s umber gaze returns to Tom’s face, _and he smiles._ Tom’s breath catches in his throat, and his heart shudders to a screeching stop.

“My dear boy, do you really think after what you’ve done, I can give you my blessing?” He asks, his voice low and easy and completely at odds with the smile stretched across his tanned face. The question hangs in the air for the briefest moment, and then Tom’s vision is blurring and his world is rotating and he can feel nothing and everything at once. It is a possibility that had always been present, but one that Tom had never truly believed would come true. The idea that anyone could refuse him, could stand against him? Impossible, and yet Clifford Allman had done just that.

“You are refusing my request?” Tom asks, knowing what the answer will be before he has finished posing the query, but he must ask despite himself.

“Yes, Tom. I am refusing you. You do not have my blessing to marry Florence, and you never shall while I live,” he says evenly, and the smile slides from his face. “Do you really think I could give her over to you after what you have done?”

“Sir?” Tom grinds out again, closing his eyes so that he will not betray himself or his rising anger with the telltale red sheen of his gaze. He still cannot feel his body, alarm bells slowly ringing within his mind and up and down his nerves as he pitches forward slightly at the waist, as if warding off pain.

“It is commendable, really, your hastiness to be reunited with Florence. But in the process you have forgotten that I can parse out your magic, and the moment your hand met mine out on the porch a few minutes ago, I knew that even less of your soul was inside you than when we last spoke one-on-one at Florence’s debut.”

Tom opens his eyes to find Clifford staring at the sole of his boot, his face now formed into a deep frown.

“For all of your intelligence, I did not believe you to be so short sited,” Clifford continues, and if Tom had been in his right mind, he might have heard the grief that warbled in every syllable, the rasping low in his voice. “I hoped and prayed that you would see it inside yourself to set aside these destructive dreams for Florence, but I see it was all in vain.”

“You know _nothing_ old man,” Tom spits, and he knows that his eyes are deep ruby now, his hands curling around empty air as he fights the urge to rip his wand from his pocket and commit murder for the second time today. “I will be the greatest sorcerer to ever live, I who have gone further to carve my name into the annals of history, and you think it _right_ to deny Florence the chance to stand beside me?”

Clifford does not flinch at Tom’s anger, his face an impassive wall that has Tom on his feet in seconds, kicking over the chair he was seated in only moments ago with such force that it slams against the wall with a sickening _crunch_.

“She has been mine since the first day I beheld her in Hogwarts, pathetic and incapable and barely a witch in any sense, but I molded her into the woman she is now. She is _nothing_ without me, don’t you understand that?”

“You once told me she was remarkable,” Clifford counters, his voice still too static for Tom who wants to rage and fight and duel. These words give Tom pause, and he shoves his hand into his pocket, his fist closing around the small velvet box that he had ordered Lestrange to purchase for him years ago. He had lain such careful plans, how could they have gone so amiss? How could Clifford Allman not understand that what he had accomplished was nothing to fear?

“It seems to matter little what I think of Florence,” Tom hisses. “No matter what I say, you have already given your answer. I doubt you intent to change it.”

“I do not,” Clifford agrees, inclining his head towards Tom. “I have never been and will never be as gifted as you when it comes to magic, Tom, but did you truly believe that you could arrive here with death singing in your veins and have me condone your actions?”

“And what is to stop Florence from saying yes anyways, to agreeing to marriage without your blessing?”

“Nothing,” Clifford says evenly, but the downcast of his eyes tells Tom that there is more to the story. “I have of course, notified her of your circumstances, therefore any question you pose to her in regards to marriage will be done with Florence in full faculties of the situation at hand.”

Rage boils within Tom as realization sets in. He had been outplayed at every turn the moment he stepped onto the Allman estate that afternoon, and his loathing for the slow-paced, easy-set man before him grows to match his hatred of Dumbledore, of perhaps death itself.

“The letter you just sent…” he spits, looking for confirmation in the face of the man before him. He receives it with another jerking nod.

“It was to Florence,” Clifford explains. “I drafted it the night of Florence’s debut after we first spoke, intending only to send it should I become aware of another transgression on your part. By now she will have had plenty of time to read it, being only a quick eagles flight from this home.”

“She loves me,” Tom says evenly, his voice betraying none of the fury that is ripping to shreds every nerve, every cell within his body. “She will say yes.”

“She does love you, which has always been more than you deserve, incapable as you are of understanding what that means,” Clifford murmurs. “Florence loves you so deeply, that even now with the understanding of what you have done, I detest this act I have completed because I know the pain it will bring her. Were you able to love as humans do, you might understand this agony.”

“She will say yes, when I ask,” Tom repeats, but even to himself the words sound like a question and he despises Clifford Allman for taking away this certainty from him.

“Forgive me, Tom, but I think not,” Clifford says, and some of his sadness at last melts into anger. It is a sign of Tom’s dementia that he relishes in the coldness of the voice set against his skin – anger was an emotion he could understand, an emotion he could master. “We are speaking of the girl who cries at the beauty of hatching seedlings, and you truly believe she would consent to tie herself for eternity to a murderer?”

“I could take her against her will, and you know you have not the strength to stop me,” Tom says, and he does not even attempt to conceal the threat that it is. _I will_ Tom tells himself. _I will spirit her across the ocean where he will never again be able to take her from me, to stand between us._

“You would attempt to cage her? To stifle the most beautiful parts of her spirt? Florence would wither and die like a plant without light under those conditions, you know this too, Tom.”

Tom gnashes his teeth, drawing his wand and twirling it between his fingers, ignoring the sparks that shoot from the end of it, recalling almost against his will those months during his final year at Hogwarts in which he had held his response to her debut over her head. How she had cowed to his will, how even though Florence had been _his,_ she’d lost whatever made her worth having. Fire erupts up and down his spine as the truth of Clifford’s words sink into his being – taking Florence against her will would destroy what he needed from her in the first place, the devotion he neither had to command nor coax into being. The devotion that had simply existed. She would either have to say yes or else he would not have her at all, because possessing a shell of her surely hurt more than not possessing her at all. _I love you_ she had said to him, but was that enough? The thought sends him staggering across the room as his knees threaten to buckle.

“You are weak,” Tom hisses at Clifford Allman when he regains his balance, because there is nothing else to say and no face left to save with the truth open between them. “And a fool, and you will never have strength or power.”

“You assume I wish for those things,” Clifford murmurs. Tom sneers at him, for a brief moment considering cursing him into the void, but finding that even this idea brings Tom no pleasure. For now he must find Florence and discover what damage her father has wrought with the truth, to see what was left to salvage.

Without another word he disapparates, reappearing in the gravel circle before Florence’s home, the structure drawing nearer under his hurried footsteps. How many times had he made this walk, desperate for the touch of her after months away, and yet they all paled to the energy that swirled within him now – the unforgivable fear, the mountainous anger.

The front door swings open, but the house is dark and Tom does not need to call out for Florence to locate her. After nine months apart, the magic that has tied them together stirs into action, drawing him to the rear of the house and out onto the back porch like a mouse following a trail of crumbs.

She is seated on the steps in a simple t-shirt and mud stained jeans, elbows resting upon knees, caramel hair longer than it was when last he saw her but still familiar and soft and the sight makes his already faint brain threaten to keel over. _Florence_ he thinks, and the screen door slams closed behind him, breaking the silence like a gunshot as he approaches her from behind. Even now he wants to rush to her, to carve his name into every inch of her skin, to make her his in every way known and unknown to man, and the thought makes his pulse erratic and his breathing unsteady.

Tom feels the final, spluttering flame of hope within his chest flicker and die when she turns to look at him, her face red from crying, cheeks stained with tears, and lips cracked and parched although she cannot have received the letter which is crumpled in her grasp more than ten minutes ago. He has seen her cry countless times, but each of these characteristics pales in comparison to the hardness of her gaze, umber eyes like burning arrows which pierce his skin with the intent to draw blood, to maim and kill.

“ _Florence,_ ” he croaks, and despite his prior anger, to be in her presence after three quarters of a year is nothing short of nirvana. Even now, with the shift in her gaze informing him that everything has changed, Tom feels the overwhelming desire for her swell within that gaping cave in his chest. He wants to _touch_ her, under normal circumstances he _would_ touch her, but Florence’s face is still impassive, her eyes like stones, and instead he swallows.

“I spoke to your father,” he starts again stepping down the stairs and into the grass so that they are eye to eye. The sun which is setting behind him shines a dusky orange upon her skin, disguising the pallor in her face.

“I know,” she says after a moment, and the hand that holds the crumpled letter twitches. It is the first time he has heard her voice since his last visit here, and even with its unnatural stillness it is perhaps the most beautiful sound he has ever heard. “I know what you’re here to ask, but please…” her voice breaks, and Tom notes the wobble in her lip, her eyes fluttering closed as if the mere sight of him had made her ill. He feels like he did the morning after Slughorn’s party – their first confrontation. So close that he can smell the coffee on her skin and connect the freckles beneath her eyes, and yet she is repulsed by him, by those very things he stands for. “Please don’t ask.”

“Florence,” he begins again, pleased that this time his voice is less hoarse despite the tremors that are now coursing through him. “Come back with me to England –”

“Tom, _please stop –”_

“– I can give you the world, I’ll give you magic, power, anything you could ever want –”

“– I don’t want to hear what you have to say, Tom – ”

“– your name will live on through the ages, you would write history alongside me –”

“– what is _wrong_ with you, can’t you understand I don’t want to hear this –”

“– just _marry me._ ” Tom finishes, the final command coming out as nothing short of a plea, his voice raised over her own so that she has no choice but to hear the words she was resisting. Florence’s head falls forward, her face burying itself within her palms so that Tom cannot read the expression that he knows must be written plainly there. He can see her shoulders shaking, but her silence breathes back to life the embers of his hope. _Perhaps_ … he dares to think, and reaching into his pocket he pulls out the ring Lestrange had purchased for him. Without even glancing at the diamond, Tom opens the case, waiting for her to uncover her eyes once more.

“Marry me, Florence,” he says again. “Magic has crafted your soul for mine, we were always meant to be as one.”

When she lifts her head, Tom knows his cause is lost, the steady stream of tears those of undeniable grief – not joy.

“You speak of souls as if you had one,” she cuts.

“And you of magic you cannot comprehend,” Tom hisses in response.

“Are you trying to mock me by asking?” Florence demands, and the hair on the back of his neck stands on edge at the anger in her voice. “Do you truly believe after what you have done that I could ever agree to be with you?”

“Would you truly deny the magic we have crafted between us? I endured madness for nine months on your behalf because even now, with you attempting to turn me away, I can feel the energy that binds us together and I know it would be true insanity to walk away from this.”

“Tom, you turned away from whatever it is that we share the moment you decided to _murder_ someone.”

“She was inconsequential, Florence,” Tom hisses, and his vision is red because how can beautiful, otherworldly, powerful Florence Allman not understand what he has achieved, how could he have failed to predict this outcome? He wants to shake her. He wants to fucking kiss her and suck the air from her lungs and he hates her for the pain that is tearing him in two.

“Like your parents? Like Myrtle Warren?” Florence chokes, and a fresh stream of tears pours down her face. “Did you kill them too?”

“Their lives were better suited for my cause, I gave their pathetic existence purpose.”

Tom does not consider lying, not now with the truth between them. He watches as her eyes flutter closed once more, reeling with the shock of his admission, and Tom grimaces as he fights the urge to hold her, to press his lips to the hollow under her jaw, to breathe in deeply of her scent. _Nine months I suffered, and for what?_

“Give me an answer, Florence,” Tom commands when he realizes he is still holding the ring box before him like an offering. He must hear her say it, to form the rejection she has said in so many words, to choose her path of morality over the love she claims to feel for him, over the world he offers her. Tom knows it is madness, that her words will bring him nothing but further pain, but still he must hear her voice it.

“No, Tom, I cannot accept you.” Florence’s voice is small, each word heavy, like it has cost Florence her very sanity to utter the phrase.

They stand before each other in silence, the moment stretching on towards eternity, their eyes locked in a conversation that only they could ever comprehend. Tom waits for her to take it back, she waits for him to…Tom does not know what Florence is waiting for. An apology? Grief? Begging? _I do not beg anyone, not even you_ he had once told her, but that was before he felt like the world was sliding through his fingers, before Florence’s gaze had hardened to iron, before the unbearable pain like his soul was being split for the second time today wracked his body.

“ _Please_ ,” he whispers, and she flinches, as if this singular word more than anything else he has uttered since his arrival hurts her more than all the others combined. Her eyes are like beads of amber in the sunset, her face flushed and Tom wants to tell her she is beautiful, that he remembers every time she has laughed in his presence, the he compares the shape of her hands to everyone else he meets. Tom wants to sink his teeth into her bottom lip and feel her tug at the curl in the center of his forehead. He wants her to smile and he wants her to tell him his magic is miraculous and she finds him beautiful in return and that she loves him, even though he has never known what it means beyond the warm glow that is ushers into the hole in his chest. He wants her – _Florence Allman_ – proud and sometimes selfish and often outspoken, who believes he matters.

“I won’t say it again, I-I can’t.” Her voice is a whimper, and Tom despises her for the way she has forced him to lay himself bare, and that it isn’t enough. In that moment he hates her so much that he wonders if he will ever feel anything beyond his fury ever again, the surge of betrayal that snakes through his mind, the inexplicable agony that burns across his skin and up and down his limbs as if his innards are turning to ash, ignited by the anguish in her refusal.

“You said you loved me,” he spits, and he doesn’t care if his vision is red now, if she can see the paleness of his skin or the bruises beneath his eyes. Florence has rejected him, and he does not know if he will ever care again what _anyone_ thinks of him. Like a snake his arm shoots from his side to wrap around her chin, his forefinger and thumb pressing into her jaw until her mouth falls open in a silent cry for mercy that slates only slightly Tom’s bloodthirsty urge to strike her down, to end the woman that has subjected him to this pain. “You said it was everything. If I am a liar, then so are you.”

“And I told you I was yours because I chose to be. Love does not equate _possession,_ Tom,” Florence manages to say despite the hand that is crushing her throat. Her skin suddenly seems to burn beneath his palm, and with a scream of rage, he releases her, turning his back on her and drawing his wand for the sake of having something to hold. Facing the fields of Dittany trees, Tom feels hysteria bubbling within his chest, and a high cold laugh emanate from his lips. Turning to look at her, he sees that Florence has gotten to her feet, her expression warped with equal parts horror and revulsion and no small measure of grief.

“You would blame me for what has broken between us, but I saw it in your eyes that day in the Chamber just as I see it in you now,” Tom hisses, and his head weaves like a serpent side to side, his tongue slippery with the words that will pierce her like bolts, words he can never take back. “You _chose_ to believe me, Florence Allman. You knew all along how I felt about _Mudbloods_ and power, and you turned a blind eye upon it all. _Yes,_ I killed disgusting Myrtle Warren and my filthy muggle father. I do not regret it, but can _you_ live with the knowledge that you suspected, and chose to love me anyways?”

“What are you?” She asks, and he watches as she presses her palm flat to her chest as if feeling for her heart. Somewhere in the smallest part of his consciousness, he wonders if she too has pain between her ribs that makes her long to end it all, or if it is only him?

“I,” Tom says, and his words drip with maniacal glee. “Am _Lord Voldemort._ I am immortal – strongest sorcerer in a generation, one day destined to be the greatest sorcerer of all time.”

“No,” Florence says, and her voice solidifies. “You’re Tom Marvolo Riddle, and you’re a fucking _man,_ just as flawed and pathetic as the rest of us.”

Tom laughs at her insistence, at the way she clings to her narrow minded understanding of life and death, of power and its reaches. His mind is running ragged with pain now, and unable to form coherent thoughts. _How could I have ever thought her remarkable?_ He feels himself smile again, savage and cruel and terrible. _So Florence Allman is a disappointment, just as the rest of them. I should have known…should have seen…_

“No, Florence, that ring upon your finger is proof enough that I am no more a man than you are.”

She looks down at the black stone, revulsion registering upon her face and Tom wants to slap the expression from her tanned skin. _How dare she look at such a powerful magical object without the proper respect? I have honored her above all others, she is not worthy…_ With shaking hands Tom watches her slide the ring from her finger, and then toss it onto the ground between them, as if it singed her skin. Tom catches it with magic, returning it to his pocket, the small piece of his soul flickering with recognition at his touch.

They stare at each other again, two people who for a time were like halves of the same coin, now reverted to separate spaces that no longer shared bonds. The magic that once thrummed between them is still, and it is this more than her words or the pain that is _still_ raging within him that brings Tom’s fury to a climax. How could she stand there so indifferent too him? How could _Florence fucking Allman_ cast dispersions upon him like all the other pure-blooded fools who thought to judge him? In the end she was no better than all of the other people who had let him down, he could see that clearly now.

“I want you to leave, Tom,” Florence says, breaking the silence. He can see in the firm set of her mouth that she is trying to remain strong, but after everything they have shared, Tom knows every inflection in her voice. He laughs again, high and cold, at her false bravado.

“No you don’t, Florence,” he whispers, taking a step forward so that she must look at him. “You want me to be the poor, orphaned _Tom Riddle_ you convinced yourself I was. But I am not he – I am more, I am Lord Voldemort, and I will reshape the magical world into a better form, into a stronger one, whether you are beside me or not.”

“Leave,” she says again, and her voice wobbles and the tears have started again. Tom bares his teeth as that small part of his mind tells him to wipe them away, to press his lips to her eyelids. _She has chosen weakness_ Tom reminds himself, and it is a sign of the insanity that besets him that for a moment he wants to choose that weakness as well.

“To think, I actually thought to make you a queen,” he hums, low and deep in his chest.

“Of the dead only,” Florence responds.

“Of the world,” he corrects. “ _My_ world. But I see now that you are not worthy of that honor. I will reshape magic in my own image and you will watch from afar, diminished, _nothing._ ”

“I want no part in the horrors you have in store,” Florence insists, but he sees the hunger in her eyes, the remorse, and Tom knows it is a lie. At least some part of her still desired him, and onto this he latches. _Perhaps, if he could reach a level of acclaim…yes in time… perhaps she would see the folly of her ways…_ Unbidden the image of Florence groveling at his feet, begging his forgiveness settles in his mind. It is a different dream than the one he’d first imagined of her, but it is no less pleasing. _Perhaps I will be merciful, or I will kill her._ Either option might bring him pleasure in the end.

“Leave now, Tom, I don’t want to fight you, and I don’t want you here,” she repeats, and Tom feels himself grow annoyed at the insistence in her voice, at the conviction there.

“Such _lies_ , Florence. But so be it,” he hisses, his fingers tightening upon his wand. He would leave in flame and glory, a final reminder of what she had walked away from. “I give you this last gift to remember me by.”

Tom turns and strides across the grass to the edge of the Dittany fields, and with a savage smirk he recalls the spell he had first used years ago at Samhain to summon a dragon of blue fire. It was only fitting that this final act mirror that of their first, that night she had first touched him, this night that he last touched her. Recalling the words, Tom closes his eyes and summons forth a jet of blue flames taller than Florence’s home, releasing his magic in a torrent of anger and pain so great he must turn his face away from the heat, unbearable even to him – the caster.

At once the trees catch fire, their leaves shriveling into nothingness, trunks popping and groaning and branches falling to the ground as they are consumed by the all-encompassing flames. From behind Tom he hears a scream, a sound of such mangled agony that he winces without thinking. Never, in all of their fights, had Florence ever made a sound of such anguish, and he hates her all the more for her ability to affect him even now after they have parted ways. When at last the fire is too large for any one person to dream of controlling it, he extinguishes the magic, breathing deeply of the ash and smoke that burns his eyes. Before him the blue wall of flame stretches across his horizon, and he smiles and feels his head pulse with lack of oxygen, with deranged glee to have caused her a modicum of the pain that sears through him now.

When he turns to take a final look at Florence, Tom remembers for the first time since arriving upon the Allman estate what it was that had attracted him to Florence in the first place, that misbegotten emotion of desire that had led him to waste years pursuing her. _Native Magic_ he recalls, and against ever fiber in his being Tom feels his mouth fall open as he takes in the sight before him.

Still screaming and keening and thrashing as if the sight of her burning fields is ripping her limb from limb, Florence has lifted from the ground, her caramel waves alight with purple tongues of electricity, her eyes like slices of topaz in the sunset. Against every inch of his burning soul – what little remains of it – Tom registers that she is beautiful, that this sight of her _flying_ will be etched into his brain for the rest of his eternal life. Tom curses her under his breath, for the way she worms her way into his mind even now, but the words bring him no solace. She is flying – she defeated him in the end, and she would defeat him now too because he can _feel_ her magic as she calls upon the spirits of the sky and the land and the very air that swirls in his lungs.

Tom does not need to understand the language that she speaks to know that she summons the storm that crackles above his head, that the raindrops that fall from the sky are nothing more than the magical embodiment of Florence Allman. Behind him, he can hear the sizzling of the fire as the downpour becomes torrential, combating the spreading flames before they can engulf the entirety of the Allman estate. Tom stands in the rain, and he drinks in the sight of her flying and commanding the elements themselves, vaguely aware through his grief that this will be his last, and then he closes his eyes and turns on the spot, disapparating into darkness.

When he reappears, he falls to his knees and wretches, yellow bile and ash falling from his mouth until he feels empty and his stomach has settled enough for him to once more regain his feet. Purposeless, he stands in the center of downtown Spectre, soaked to the bone and face smeared with ash.

Tom reaches into his pocket to withdraw his international portkey, to set it for the final time, when his hand brushes against the velvet ring box and the Horcrux Florence returned to him. Bitterness overtakes him then, and unbearable pain that pulses at his temples and threatens to overwhelm his senses – equivalent to splitting his soul, and he fears for a moment that he will lose consciousness.

Florence Allman had chosen weakness, so be it – but for one hair splitting second he considers turning back, falling to his knees and begging for her mercy, and then it passes like a fit of madness and what is left of his heart – if he ever had one to start – hardens.

Sliding the Gaunt ring onto its rightful place upon his finger, Tom sets the portkey, confident that with Florence gone from his life, nothing could now stand in his way to grandeur and greatness. He ignores the voice that hisses at the back of his mind that in the end, by rejecting the notion of Achilles, he’d been resigned to the role of Menelaus – pining away for that person and thing which he could never truly possess. It was a ridiculous idea, and one that he manages to suppress after a moments wrestling.

He would reshape the world, he would burn brighter than the sun, and when his name was known and feared across the land, unremarkable Florence Allman would come to know her folly. Tom repeated the mantra over and over in his head, attempting to calm the agony that still tore at him from the cavern within his chest. He silenced the thought that perhaps the world was not worth having without her in it, and allowed himself to be transported across the ocean for a final time, certain that he would never return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it finally happened. We all knew confrontation was coming, and I agonized over every word of this chapter. 
> 
> Always I have felt that your comments are a privilege and I endeavor not to ask for them, but after so much building I'd love to know your thoughts at this point in the story! Of course, please don't feel pressured too, but with so much ~happening~ in this update, I'd just love to gauge how everyone is feeling.
> 
> Never fear, there is still more to come. The story will not be ending on this tragic note, but I make no promises on where we are moving from here. I also recognize I played around a bit with the timeline. Even though we don't know when specifically he found the locket, I believe we're meant to assume it's a bit later. Moving it forward in time made more sense for this story, and so that's what I did. I hope everything else makes sense in the framework of Rowling's original story. 
> 
> As I mentioned before, I will share the rest of the playlist at the end of the story - but if you have any songs you want me to share feel free to comment them. You are all wonderful, stay safe, wear your mask!!


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly have no words for the outpouring of support that I received after this last chapter. I wrote the last chapter in an emotional frenzy, and as a result chapter 47 was the hardest to write thus far. Knowing what needed to happen didn't make it any easier, and I struggled with the #angst and also hurting my dear Florence because after so long together, it's hard to hurt a friend. 
> 
> My dearest readers, you have been the greatest gift of 2020. I will never be able to express how much I appreciate each and every one of you, and I cannot apologize enough for stepping away for as long as I have. Like I said, this chapter was hard to write, so if you have any issues with it, as always please feel free to let me know.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the comments on chapter 46, and a warmest, most sincere welcome to all of the new readers (I'm floored there are so many of you!!!) Thanks for being here and happy reading.

**Chapter 47**

“But Mole stood still a moment, held in thought. As one wakened suddenly from a beautiful dream, who struggles to recall it, but can recapture nothing but a dim sense of the beauty in it, the beauty! Till that, too, fades away in its turn, and the dreamer bitterly accepts the hard, cold waking and all its penalties.”  
― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows

They find her hovering a few inches above the ground, umber eyes staring unseeingly into the plumes of black smoke before her, caramel hair and ash stuck to her face in equal portions so that she feels like a slick mask covers her skin. Florence does not even know she is still flying until Albion’s arms wrap around her waist and pull her the last few centimeters to the ground where at once her knees buckle, her head lolling against his chest.

“What happened, Florie?” He asks, and his voice is tight, a calloused palm seeking her wrist where she knows he is checking for her pulse. Florence doesn’t answer, _can’t_ answer, instead staring into the charred remains before her like the clouds of smoke might leave answers written in the heavens for her to decipher. If they are there, she cannot understand them.

“Flor?” Albion asks again before ducking his head behind her shoulders and coughing heavily, his lungs battling with phlegm and ash and smoke. There is a film over her thoughts, a greasy layer so thick that her senses cannot penetrate, let alone Albion’s voice which reaches her from the farthest corners of the Earth. For all Florence can understand, havoc is being wreaked beneath the barrier, tearing apart the fleshly muscle of her mind and leaving behind only a gaping hole of nothingness.

“Let’s get her inside,” a woman’s voice murmurs, and through the haze it takes Florence several moments to recognize the chilled tone as her mother. _Why does she sound so scared?_ Albion lifts Florence from the ground with a small huff and makes his way back toward her home, up the back steps and into the first sitting room where he sets her on the couch.

“ _Cash_ ,” Florence hears Eudora calling in the hallway. Her voice is scratchy, as if Florence is listening to a recording on vinyl, not a living breathing person. “I want a bowl of hot water, several rags, and a change of clothes,” the matriarch lists off in rapid succession, some of her prior steel slipping into her voice. “Oh, and blankets please. As many as you can find.”

Florence does not hear her mother sending Albion from the room, nor does she comprehend the instructions now being given to her in a low, sweet voice – only that someone is helping to remove the wet layers of clothing from her skin before wrapping her in a robe and wiping down the ash and soot from her skin. It might have felt nice if she could feel it at all, but even the ungodly number of blankets now swaddled around her did nothing to warm the tundra-like expanse that was exponentially expanding within her chest, growing to blot out all other sensations until only numbness remained.

“Florence?” Eudora asks, and she knows that the voice is her mother only because the thin faced, olive skinned woman is now kneeling before her, an unfamiliar glint in her dark eyes that Florence cannot recall ever seeing before. “Let’s get you to bed.”

She does not remember moving up the stairs or down the halls, only the sensation of her world tilting on its axis as her head hits the pillow. A hand brushes across her brow, a blanket is pulled across her form, and then darkness descends upon Florence’s mind. It is a particular shade of midnight blue, and it permeates her system until she feels as if she is falling, slipping further and further into shadowed chaos from which she can never return, binding to her place upon her bed until restless sleep at last takes her.

.

.

.

Florence wakes to a searing pain within her chest, as if her sternum bears a hairline fracture, and a burning along her throat. For only one, silver-intoned moment, Florence questions why her body is wracked with such agony, and then she remembers in flashes the events of the day before. _Her father’s tightly sealed scroll…Tom’s face shadowed and haggard…a hand crushing her throat…the heat of fire singeing her skin…grief made into magic, air supporting her body as if the two were one…_

With a small groan she sits up, testing the unconscious theory that perhaps adjusting her position will bring relief. It does not, and instead the sharp pressure upon her ribs seems to expand so that Florence’s entire chest is being compressed. Releasing another groan which strains her smoke-charred throat, Florence allows herself to sink into the emotions which she knows better than to even attempt to keep at bay.

She had _flown_ , and yet the thought is nothing more than a fact, wonder-less and dull like stating that the sky is blue or the grass green. She had flown and Tom had looked at her like she was the most wretched and yet wonderful thing he’d ever beheld, and no attempt to bury it would every rid herself of the gaze that was now burned into her mind.

Years’ worth of memories seem to be teetering upon the edge of a slope within her thoughts, slowly spilling over until Florence was helpless to flit amongst them – cursed to _remember_. Curling in on herself so that her chin pressed to her chest, Florence feels as if she experiences it all in an instant. Tom: pristine and nonplussed, seated across the Great Hall from her at Hogwarts on her first night when the shear _magic_ of the castle had overwhelmed her. Obsidian eyes boring into her in their lessons, watching across classrooms as delicate fingers raced across parchment, the quill a weapon in his hand. Florence remembered how he began to follow her around the school, how he’d gleamed like a prince at Slughorn’s party, how he’d conjured a dragon of fire at Samhain and then looked at her as if he’d like to eat her raw, and she remembers with dismay that she would have let him if he’d asked.

She remembers the trail of fire up her skin when they first touched, the shadow of his figure under the heart tree of her family home. Florence recalls the notes he wrote her – _I will carve your name into time itself_ – which are still stored in her Hogwarts trunk beneath the stairs. She presses her hands to her stomach when she remembers that he has touched her where no one else has before, that she can never have that back, and she cries when she remembers discovering that his eyes were midnight blue and not black, as if she had discovered a new world.

Florence thinks of the books in her library that she has purchased just because she knew _Tom_ would like them, of the wardrobe that stands beside hers just across the room filled with clothes that would suit his pale complexion, his narrow frame. She thinks of the stores of tea she’d shipped in from India that fill the pantry, and of the Dittany tree that literally sings with his magic only a few miles away.

Years of her life she’d devoted to him, and yet hunched over her bed, tears streaming down her face, it feels like centuries, as if she’d molded everything she was to him, a moss that suddenly found itself untethered from the stone upon which it had been growing. _You fool_ she thinks until she is sobbing so hard she cannot breathe and she begins to choke, at which point she falls onto her side and lays still, Focusing on anything but the gaping maw within her chest, a bleeding wound which renders her unmovable.

She remembers last Tom’s words from only the day before, although they come to her as if across the expanses of eternity. She remembers the way he’d begged her – _please_ – he’d said, and she’d hated him for learning it too late. _Yes, I killed disgusting Myrtle Warren and my filthy muggle father. I do not regret it, but can you live with the knowledge that you suspected, and chose to love me anyways?_ The words reverberate in her skull like the shrill cries of a hunting hawk, golden eyes locked upon a poor, unsuspecting field mouse.

 _Did I suspect_ Florence asks herself, her eyes staring unseeingly out the window and landing upon the charred remains of the Dittany fields behind her house. Smoke still trickled from what had been the first few rows where Tom’s magic had done the greatest damage. _Perhaps not the extent of his depravity, but I suspected_ … This thought, this admittance, is perhaps the most painful of all that came before it. She could not lie to herself, a shortcoming of her own nature she could not learn to overcome now in this moment of distress. _You fought knowing, you did not probe because you were terrified to know._

There is so much to unpack, so many thoughts so process, and Florence is unprepared for the surge of self-loathing which rises to mingle with the grief and agony within her. It renders her unmovable, and shortly afterward she begins to choke once more upon the tears that stream into her mouth until her chest burns and the physical pain at last eclipses her sadness. For one brief, luminescent second, her mind is free from thoughts of him, and then a deep breath follows another and Tom has returned, a shadow in every plane of her thoughts.

Perhaps it was her sobbing which brought the elves to her, perhaps Eudora had instructed them to care for Florence the evening prior, but a few minutes later the door to her bedroom swings open and June and Cash roll in with a steaming tray of coffee and loaded platters bearing all of Florence’s favorite breakfast treats. The thought of food makes her want to wretch across the mattress upon which she lays, but the scent of coffee drives life into her.

“Missy, Florence!” June chirps, appearing upon the bed beside her and running a warm hand across her brow. “Crying will do’s no goods. Let’s get coffee inside us and then we will call the main house. You should not be alone.”

“June,” Florence mumbles, closing her eyes as the hand begins to pat the top of her head. It feels good, in a childish, indulgent manner, to have someone taking care of her, but Florence cannot bask in it because already the surprise of their appearance has once again faded to the aching in her chest. _Will I ever escape thoughts of him again_ Florence wonders, her gaze once more straying out the window and finding the smoke. He feels like a brand upon her skin, one she will never escape, not now in the height of her grief, and not in an eternity. A dense fog seems to settle over her in that instant, and she shudders into its hold over her, releasing her willpower to its cold gravity.

The coffee is warm, if not flavorless, and June and Cash tend to her with hawk-like precision. But no amount of cajoling or begging can get her to eat, and eventually the two house elves disappear, leaving Florence wrapped in her quilts where she slips once more into restless sleep.

.

.

.

Her father is seated upon the chair beside her window when she next wakes, the sky outside a vibrant watercolor of orange and red and yellow. It is like a knife to her chest, recalling how Tom’s hair had been backlit by a sunset of equal voracity only the night before. _Only yesterday_ she thinks, and Florence feels dread wash over her at the thought that she may never be able to separate sunsets from thoughts of Tom. _Will everything beautiful be marred by him?_

“Good morning, Florence,” her father’s voice rumbles out, deep and rolling like the hills along the horizon. “Or should I say good evening.”

His words seem to amuse him, and he smiles, although even to Florence it is apparent that the humor does not reach his eyes. His tanned skin is drawn, his hands laced over his stomach as if he has been sitting in contemplative silence for some time. She doesn’t answer, instead pulling the quilt tighter around her shoulders so that every inch of her body feels cocooned, protected. She tries not to think about what it felt like to share this bed with another, the warmth that radiated from…

“I doubt you have any desire to talk,” her father continues after a moment, “but I think it best if we discuss the information that I shared with you yesterday, and the resulting events between you and Tom.”

“I _don’t_ want to talk about it,” Florence says, and her voice is a croak, throat raw from screaming and smoke inhalation and now lack of use. Clifford nods once, his chin nearly touching his sternum with the motion.

“I understand, and yet talk we must,” he murmurs, crossing one leg over the other. “Let’s start with the letter. What questions do you have?”

A million fly through Florence’s head, but her mouth remains firmly shut. _How long have you known? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? What does it all mean?_ Yet one question rings louder than all the others, and at last it spills from Florence’s lips.

“Is it true?”

It is a petulant question, Tom having already confirmed it the other evening, yet she has to ask. Because he was right, she doesn’t want to _believe_ that it could be true despite his confirmation and her suspicions. Because she wants to _believe_ that she didn’t love a monster, even though she did.

_I still do._

“Is what true?” Clifford asks. “Is it true that Tom has committed the supreme act of evil – murdering other people? Yes, it is true.” He takes a deep breath, and his eyes flicker closed for a moment. Florence’s gaze strays to the wall where she will not have to see the lines of his face, subject only to the sound of his words which she has neither the will nor the energy to escape. “Is it also true that as a result of these acts, Tom’s soul was rendered unstable and therefore separable? Yes.”

There is a pause after Clifford’s words.

“He told me he killed them…last night,” Florence admits, as if double confirming Clifford’s words.

“Who?”

“Myrtle Warren. His father.”

“I am sorry, Florence. He should not have shouldered that burden upon you,” her father begins, but Florence cuts him off with a snort. Tom had done far worse to her, namely the gaping hole within her chest, what more were the identities of those who he had killed? It was enough to know that he had murdered.

“In the letter,” Florence continues on, eyes resolute upon the wall. “You said that pieces of his soul were missing, but just now all you said was that killing only renders the soul unstable. I don’t understand.” The words are bitter upon her tongue. Tom had always made her feel small, always reminded her of the things she didn’t know. _So limited on your views of magic_ he’d once said to her. What now was another wound now, even when he had left her far behind?

“It means,” and her father pauses. She can hear him sucking air in through his nose. “It means that Tom has _chosen_ to separate the fragmented parts of his soul – to embed them in objects.”

“I still don’t understand,” Florence grunts, but this time she is lying as other memories float up to the forefront of her mind, through the fog, the imagine of the ring she’d worn for nearly four years hovering before her eyes. _As if I would let you die. I plan to carve your name into time itself. I am not so human as to succumb to death_. The signs had all been there, and she’d refused to look closer… _chosen_ not to see…

“Pieces of your soul that are removed render the person… _unkillable,”_ Clifford finally admits. “But it is at the cost of one’s humanity… It is not a choice that should be lightly made.”

Florence feels a surge of energy pass through her as understanding slams into her being. _He chose death_ Tom had howled, and his face had flickered with madness and firelight and gleam she couldn’t comprehend as he spoke of Achilles’ fate. Now that she could understand, she hated him all the more for it – for what he had chosen, for loving him despite it. She lays immobile upon the bed, but every nerve within her body is singing as if suddenly there is an excess of energy burning its way through her system, illuminating those thoughts she’d attempted in vain to keep in the dark for years.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Florence cuts, and it is this question, more than any other, that has been nagging at her mind since she opened her eyes to find Clifford seated in her bedroom.

“If I had told you before you were ready to hear it, would you have listened?” He counters, and Florence cannot stop the slip of her gaze to meet her fathers. For a moment the energy in her peaks and she thinks of striking him, of leaping from the bed and sinking her nails into the available expanses of his skin, but she does not stir from under the quilt.

“That is not a good enough reason.”

Clifford sighs.

“I hoped he would choose wisely, that Tom might become _more_ for your sake, and I hoped against what most would consider rational reasoning, that I would not have to hurt you. Tom has known that I was aware of the truth for the better part of three years, and yet he has not informed you likewise.”

“He’s not my father,” Florence whispers, and her throat catches, smothering anything else she might have said.

“No, he is not, and I was wrong,” Clifford says slowly, each word like a ton of stone as it passes his lips.

“How long have you known?”

“Since the day I met him – I felt the missing pieces of his soul when I first shook hands with him.”

“So long…” Florence whispers, and a knife is pressing between her ribs, twisting and gouging until she cannot breathe. Florence closes her eyes, and pulls the quilt around her until she cannot see her father even if she were to open them. There is silence again, and before Florence knows it, she feels the telltale stream of water down her face and across her nose, tears spilling over and onto her bed. The room feels too small, her chest too tight, and without question she wants her father to leave, for no one to see the havoc that Tom Riddle has wreaked upon her being.

“Florence,” her father begins, and his voice cracks. She remembers the way he said her name that day in the hospital, how happy he’d been to see her after his trials. Florence wishes she could return the favor, that she could will herself to enjoy his company now when it felt as if her skin was slowly being peeled away, hair pulled out piece by piece – but she cannot. “I am _so_ sorry… _so sorry_ to have caused you this pain. To have put you in such danger as I did yesterday…”

There is a coughing sound, but from behind the blankets Florence cannot see his face. _Is he crying?_

“What will you tell everyone?”

“In regards to what?” Clifford asks, and Florence thinks he sounds surprised by her question.

“About Tom. What will you tell them?” She repeats.

“Florence, I understand how traumatic this has been – the end of a relationship, the secrecy, the burning of the fields – but I must ask if you are intending on protecting him still?” Her father queries, and with a small token of relief she hears the creak of the chair as he gets to his feet. Pressure is building between her shoulder blades, her father the drainplug that can siphon it away only with his exit from her room.

“No, I’m not protecting him.”

 _I’m protecting myself_ goes unsaid. No one could ever know that she loved – still loves – a murderer. That she gave herself to someone capable of such things.

“I don’t care if they know what he did to the trees. Tell everyone, it doesn’t matter,” Florence continues, her voice oddly muffled by the shell of blankets in which she’s wrapped. “But they cannot know of his crimes. Or of what he did to his soul. I would be…ashamed… for others to know.” There is a beat of quiet following her words, and then Florence flinches as a hand comes to rest upon her shoulder. Even with the layers of fabric between them, the touch makes Florence feel as if slime is crawling up her throat.

“If anyone should feel ashamed, it is Tom. Or myself. Do not hold yourself accountable, Florence.”

Florence’s chest burns, and she bites her cheek to stop from sobbing. A moment later, Clifford’s hand leaves her shoulder and his footsteps carry her from the room, leaving Florence to swirl in the pool of memory that haunts her unceasingly.

.

.

.

They come to visit her – one by one – as they hear of the news. First it is her family, her mother and Albion and Owen and the army of house elves bringing soup and sweets that go largely untouched and letters that remain unopened. Eudora cleans the home on her visits, Albion regales her with updates on the running’s of the plantation, and Owen lays beside her in her bed and reads – sometimes silently, other times out loud. Her father does not visit again, and Florence does not send for him. It will be some time before she can stomach his presence. _He lied to me_ Florence thinks each time Clifford’s name slips from Albion or Eudora’s lips, but she has learned to hide the flinch that accompanies his name.

Harder to disguise are the bags beneath her eyes, the haggard, pained expression she cannot stop herself from making when they ask about what happened with Tom, like a spasm through the muscles of her face. They each have their own tactics: Albion is blunt, asking directly, Eudora attempts to circle around it with a variety of questions, and Owen with much stuttering and adjusting of his glasses requests the story of what happened the night Tom burned her fields to the ground. She reminds herself that they do not know he is a murderer, that they cannot comprehend why what appears to be any old breakup has rendered Florence near lifeless – cold and immovable. She tells them only that she broke up with him, that she wasn’t ready to be married, and in his rage he burned the trees to the ground.

She doesn’t tell them that she gave her heart to a monster, that she cannot forgive herself for the mistake. That she cannot stop the cloying guilt even now that loving him doesn’t _feel_ like a mistake.

“Never liked him from the beginning,” Albion growls when Florence gives her short explanation, or lack thereof.

“I always thought him so gently mannered, but he _must_ have anger management issues,” Eudora concludes, her eyes hard and tone brittle as she traces Florence’s pale face. “I know you feel dreadful, Dear, but if that is what he was like all along, perhaps you have escaped something.” Florence does not tell her mom what she escaped, and she certainly doesn’t tell her that sometimes she wishes she hadn’t, that she wakes up in phantom arms whispering his name, longing for the cage she had built for herself alongside him.

Owen had only stared at her in response, long and severe as if she was an error in a translation or a Transfiguration problem he needed to solve. After some time, he’d closed the book he’d left open on his thigh and gotten to his feet.

“You’re not telling us everything. Albion is too dense and mom too worried, but I know there is tension between you and dad, and I know Tom Riddle for all of his intelligence did not burn our Dittany crop to the ground simply because you rejected his marriage proposal,” Owen states in a dry, matter of fact voice. “Although, I’m sure the rejection angered him immensely.”

“Do me a favor and keep your suspicions to yourself,” she murmurs in response.

“Radella is coming to visit in a month. Forgive me, but I took the liberty of telling her that you and Tom have separated. I thought it for the best if she found out before she arrived.”

Florence returns to work a week after Tom’s parting, and though the resulting exhaustion helps her fall asleep faster, work holds none of the joy nor the beauty it had before. She thinks of the seedlings she gave Tom for his apartment that he simply let die each time she turns to water a new row within the greenhouses, and more often than not her eyes brim over with fresh tears. _I wish I could take it back_ Florence bemoans to herself. She had not thought she had a world to give him, and so she’d made him part of her own. Now she could not un-share what had already been given, and her loathing for herself only grows.

With work also comes letters from beyond the Allman Estate, and with the letters visitors. Tallulah arrives with no less than six casseroles and enough heated words for Tom to burn down the Arctic. By the time she leaves, Florence has cracked more than a few smiles and laughed for the first time in weeks. Radella arrives as Owen had said she would, gentle and motherly as she strokes Florence’s hair and holds her while she cries. Philip takes a day off of work to Floo down from Boston, and Florence serves him tea and cookies that Tallulah’s house elf baked and listens as he describes his role as a part of the Cauldron Sales Force.

“Dad wants me to come back to Britain,” Philip says, scratching the back of his head with an uneasy grimace as they stand to say their farewells. “He says my American Holiday has been long enough, and it’s time to step up and join the family business, aye.”

“Do you want to?” Florence asks, trying to ignore the part of her brain that is leaping down side trails. _Philip’s father owns Borgin & Burke’s…Philip left and a job became open…Tom took the job opening_… All roads, Florence has learned over the intervening month since their breaking, led to Tom.

“Course I don’t,” Philip says, waving his hand before him. “And work with my father? And Herbert? I’d rather lose a leg.”

“Forgive me,” Florence says, and the reckless, needy part of her brain wins out. “But I thought Tom had taken your job?” Philips face pales, and his brown eyes flicker from Florence’s gaze to the carpet to staring down the hall.

“He’s disappeared,” Philip admits at last, shrugging slightly. “Left without a notice or a word – dad was right chuffed about it to be honest, but it’s not like Riddle. Apparently one of their biggest clients got poisoned by her house elf, and Tom was pretty close with her. I reckon it scared him off.”

Florence’s gaze becomes unfocused as Philip’s words reach her, his freckled visage swaying in and out of the light. Idly she wonders if Philip – if anyone – really knew the real Tom. _You certainly didn’t_ the cold, knife-like voice at the back of her mind tells her. _I want whatever it is you are_ Tom’s voice rings in her thoughts, and Florence has to shake herself before she is overcome with the memories, with the words that had melted her then – that still burn through her even now.

“Well, considering he burned my trees to the ground, I can’t say I’m surprised he quit without a word,” Florence finally mutters, giving Philip a toothless smile. She feels his hand take hers and squeeze – he’d always been more giving with his touches than Lizzie.

“I’m sorry about what happened, Firstie,” Philip says, and the nickname feels like a warm stream of summer air. Florence’s smile spreads slightly at his insistence at kindness, at the goofy nature not even her empty heart could repress. “If you need anything, Boston’s only ever a Floo away. I’ve written to your father and MACUSA to link our homes. Pop by for a visit whenever.”

They embrace, Florence presses another tin of cookies she will never eat into his hands, and then Philip is gone in a flash of green flames.

Lizzie is the last to visit – not by any fault of friendship, but the transatlantic portkey took some time to secure, and Florence secretly considered that Avery’s ties to Tom’s circle of lackies would make visiting her difficult. It is two months after the breaking that the blonde haired, blue eyed goddess arrives upon Florence’s front porch, a bouquet of white roses in her arms and a deep hug the moment the door is thrown open.

“The flowers along your drive are _magnificent_ , Florence, dear,” Lizzie says as Florence ushers her into a chair where she accepts a glass of wine from June. Florence takes a seat in the armchair across from her, curling her feet beneath her in an unladylike pose that would have both Elizabeth and Eudora groaning. Lizzie, for her part, only gives Florence her usual hard stare before continuing.

“I’m so sorry it’s been so long, it took me ages to get the portkey, and then Pyrrhus was being difficult about travel dates,” Lizzie says, confirming Florence’s suspicions while taking a sip from her wine. “How have you been?”

“Better than I deserve I suppose,” Florence says with a weak smile, knowing that any attempt at false positivity would be ripped to shreds by the summer-blue gaze of Elizabeth Greengrass. Lizzie rolls her eyes.

“So you’re miserable,” she asserts.

“That’s about it,” Florence agrees, and somehow just saying it makes her head feel slightly lighter, the open wound within her chest a little warmer.

“Well you look like a patch of daisies compared to him,” Lizzie continues after a moment. Whatever warmth had surged in Florence immediately evaporates, Lizzie’s face softening slightly at the obvious tension that settles over Florence’s figure. “Don’t be surprised, you knew I was going to see him sooner or later.”

“So he looks miserable too?”

“No, murderous more like. And mad,” Lizzie adds, finishing her glass of wine and taking the bottle from the ice tray to refill. “Of course, no one _else_ sees it, but I’ve seen the way he looked at you enough times to know what insanity looks like on him.”

Florence snorts at this, but her mouth is dry and her hand around the glass of wine quivers. Unbidden, she recalls the wide-eyed look he’d given her, the high, cold laughter he’d emitted before turning and burning her fields to the ground. _Madness_.

“Do you see him often?” She asks, and Florence wants to wretch at the smallness of her voice, for its breathy quality.

“Oh yes, Riddle comes over for tea every other Tuesday,” Lizzie says with an uncharacteristic snort. After a beat, she continues. “Of course not, Florence. I do my best to avoid him, but Pyrrhus has business with him, and I see him at large events. If you must know, he attends galas alone and spends most of his time lurking in the shadows with various heirs to pureblood families bringing him drinks and gossip.”

“What is he doing with Pyrrhus and all of them?” Florence asks after a moment.

“You mean his lackies? Whatever they’ve been doing since Hogwarts I’d assume,” Lizzie murmurs coolly. “I have a very happy marriage, but asking what occurs at Riddle’s meetings is one piece of information that I’m not privy too.”

“How long did you know of them, of his _followers_?” Florence asks, and she can’t help the cutting edge in her words. Lizzie lets out a deep sigh, but her gaze doesn’t back down.

“Since it was founded. All of the pure-bloods knew, how could we not?” Lizzie’s voice is sharp, direct. She is not one to initiate these types of conversations, but once they have started she does not avoid them, instead charging on into the deep. “I didn’t join, neither did Philip – me because I knew it was dangerous, Philip because he didn’t have the stomach for it. Why do you think he’s hiding out in America? The only muggle sympathizing Burke in the entire history of the family.”

“But why do they follow him? I don’t understand,” Florence whispers, her chest constricting. Lizzie shrugs and tosses a sheet of long, blonde hair over her shoulder.

“He’s powerful? He’s the heir of Slytherin? Pyrrhus refuses to tell me of course, but I know he took them down into the Chamber and terrified the will to live out of them in third year. After that, they were prepared to shine his shoes if he asked.”

“But what do they get out of it?”

“Power via association,” Lizzie clarifies, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back against the cushions behind her. “Riddle has promised to maintain the current blood order status quo – to return the sacred twenty-eight to their former glory. There aren’t many Slytherins who would pass up the opportunity.”

Florence swallows the feeling that all of this was so glaringly _obvious_ and that she had just been to foolish, too naive to see. Beside her self-loathing is the familiar feeling of resentment, that Lizzie had known and yet not told her. _First my father, now my best friend._

“I did warn you,” Lizzie says, as if reading Florence’s mind. “When you first got to Hogwarts. I did tell you to be careful with him.”

“Stubborn American, ultimate consumer, remember?” Florence holds up her glass and they both smile, the moment easing slightly now that the truth lay between them.

“So if Phy won’t talk to you about it, does that mean you’re not a member?” Florence asks. She knows it’s a personal question, but her entire orbit has been shifted, and at the moment she could care less.

“No,” Lizzie gives a small chuckle. “I’m not a member.”

“I don’t understand how you stomach it? I mean, you’re no saint Lizzie, but you’re not trying to rid the world of NoMaj’s either,” Florence states, bluntly enough that even she winces.

“Yes, well, I love him – Pyrrhus that is. So I could either turn a blind eye or make myself morose and marry Philip, which I assure you would have made us both miserable in the end,” Lizzie replies, finishing her second glass of wine with a large gulp. “I’m sure you can attest to the difficulty of the decision.”

Florence nods once, but she does not answer. Yes, Pyrrhus was a blood purist, but Florence doubted he was taking other’s lives to make himself immortal. She doubted he had the wherewithal to imagine such a thing, nor the constitution to follow through with it, and she knew at the least he was not following in his leader’s footsteps when it came to Patricide, having met Avery Senior during several events. _My choice was made for me_ Florence wants to say, but she holds her tongue. She was not in a sparring match with Lizzie over who had chosen the harder man to love.

They spend the next few days riding and enjoying easy meals prepared by June and Cash, Tallulah often joining them rides, and Forsythe, Albion, and Margaret popping over for meals. Florence laughs more than she remembers laughing for the past few months, and her appetite returns in the presence of her friends, but she cannot shake the tightness at the base of her spine, nor the blanket of exhaustion that seems to weigh upon her at all times.

 _Can you live with yourself_ Tom’s voice whispers at night when the house is dark and the only sound is the rustling of the wind in the trees, the occasional snore from a painting. Florence stays up into the small hours of the morning nursing a glass of wine and staring deep into the wild, shadowed face of Atalanta – debating whether to take down the painting, or if is a sign of weakness to remove him from every inch of her life. He is in everything, there is not one page of her life she did not share with him, and it makes her hate him all the more – hate herself for giving away her heart to someone who could not love it in return.

Two nights after Lizzie leaves, Florence finds herself pacing the hallways of her home in the dark, and without thinking she reaches for her wand and turns on the spot. Resurfacing at the top of Illini’s hill, she pulls her robe tight around her, shoving her wand into a pocket as her bare feet pick their way across the grass to sit at the base of Tom’s tree.

His magic is cloying, filling the air before she has even touched its bark, and at once the sobs come. Tremors down her spine, heels of her palms pressing into her eyes until she sees stars, the bark cold and rough against her skin. _Tom_ she thinks, although she is always thinking of him. Of his voice and his words and the brands he’d left upon her skin – invisible but burning, never healing, tearing her skin a part. _Tom_ who’d been given the chance to set aside his dark fantasies, and who had chosen death anyways. The nigh air presses in on her, and not for the first time she wishes for a pair of long, sinewy arms to wrap themselves around her, for a towering frame to cradle hers, for a thunderous voice to tell her she is beautiful. Her sobs ring out into the glade until she loses even the energy to cry.

 _“Cub,”_ Illini’s voice rasps in her head some time later, and Florence blinks twice before registering the hulking white figure that circles the air above her. Seconds later the creature descends, landing softly despite her size, wings folding under and tail swatting at the air like a whip. _“I can hear your grief in your song. I can smell it in the air. What troubles you?”_ The great white head comes to rest on the ground before her, and Florence feels the warm exhale of Illini’s breath coursing over her. For one moment she pauses, and then Florence speaks.

She tells Illini everything – unabridged, unguarded. She tells her of the words Tom has given her that she cannot stop rehearing, she tells her of his pleas for Florence to consume Dittany concentrate to live longer. Florence shares their trip down to the Chamber and she talks of Tom’s increasing madness as their time away continued on, and she tells Illini how he murdered three people, how her father and her friends had let her believe the lies she told herself, and how even after he tried to destroy the thing she cares for most in this world, she still loves him. She tells her how she loathes herself for refusing to see, and how she

 _“He’s like a weed I can’t uproot from my mind,”_ Florence explains, and her voice is ragged from her tale. _“He is in everything. I hear him upon the wind, his face is in my dreams, and I feel sick with it all because I shouldn’t miss him and I shouldn’t love him and yet every day I wake up and fight the urge to fly to him, to fall on my knees before him and beg him to take me back_. _I keep thinking over our conversation – the last one – and I scratch my skin bloody trying to figure out what I could have said, what I could have done to save him._ ”

 _“My Cub, he was un-whole from the start, you would never have been able to help him in the end,”_ Illini asserts, and Florence looks up from her hands to meet the pale gaze of the Piasa before her. Florence swallows.

_“You knew of his soul as well?”_

_“I could feel the emptiness in him, yes,”_ Illini agrees. _“It was there before you met him, and he filled it with the love you gave him, used it like a crutch to keep him sane – although he could not understand.”_

 _“So when we were across the ocean from each other…”_ Florence states, and her tears stop as realization sets in.

_“He had nothing to fill the emptiness, or not enough. It would have been the first time he truly comprehended the agony of splitting his spirit, and yet he would not understand – how could he? He told you himself.”_

Florence thinks of the night of her debut, of Tom’s gaze seeking hers in the darkness of her bedroom, of the terror in his face when she’d said she loved him. _I don’t understand_. Grief fills Florence again, this time for Tom, for the man she loved who’d ruined his chance at ever living before it had even begun. _Did he understand what he was choosing?_ She thinks of Achilles too, who’d chosen his own glory and killed his companion by proxy. Was this the burden of all great men – to make the wrong choices?

 _“No, Cub, he could never have understood what he was choosing,”_ Illini confirms, and her chest rumbles with a purr that passes through Florence like a warm bath. _“I told him the first night under the moon that to forgo death is to sacrifice life, but he was blind, his mind shattered, limited.”_

_“You told me he would offer me the world.”_

_“And he did, but you did not take it,”_ Illini replies, and she blinks once, languid and slow.

 _“No, but I wanted too…”_ Florence admits. _“I still want too.”_

 _“Do you think you made the wrong decision?”_ Illini probes, and Florence gulps down lungfuls of air, swiping at her cheeks to remove the tears from her skin. Her face reddens, but her breathing becomes easier after a moment.

_“The hard decision yes, but not the wrong one.”_

_“Then you must live with this.”_

The beast does not tell Florence she is sorry, that she wishes it could have been otherwise for her sake. Illini does not bemoan Tom’s choices or his nature or the pain he has caused her, she simply rustles her wings slightly and exhales.

 _“Is it wrong for me to miss him? To love him still?”_ Florence asks after a moment, her mind probing the creature’s before her. Illini’s claws sink into the ground, kneading the earth beneath her.

_“Like your choice, it is what is. You must live with it, Cub.”_

_“How?”_

Illini lets out a low growl that vibrates the ground.

_“You have roots stronger than this storm, if you must grow again, it is better to be starting from a healthy base.”_

Florence nods, and leans back against the Dittany tree behind her. She can feel Tom’s magic still, the rush across her skin like a mockery of his embrace, of his touch. Could she live with herself for loving a monster?

She would find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVERYONE KNEW AND THEY DIDN"T TELL HER. I get so angry when I think about it, but then I think about sweet, obsessive little Florence and I know she wouldn't have listened, so who's to blame. 
> 
> Thank you for being here!!! You make my sun rise in the morning and set in the evenings wonderful readers of mine!! Please please please continue to stay safe! The world is crazy right now Xx


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean HELLO to the people who are still reading this story - you people make my world spin quite literally.
> 
> I think these next few chapters will have people either banging their head against a wall, screaming out into the night, or saying "I KNEW IT ALL ALONG" down in the comments. Any and all responses are acceptable, I just ask that you understand the story is still far from over, and I PROMISE I have things all ~planned out~.
> 
> Thank you endlessly for all of the comments on the last chapter. You! People! Are! Incredible!

**Chapter 48**

“And Lot's wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human. So she was turned into a pillar of salt. So it goes.”   
― Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five

The memories of Tom do not release Florence, but they do fade, weaving into a tapestry of her life, like a painting seen long ago at a museum. Brilliant, resonant, and then gone, only hazy recollections remaining to try and understand that one momentary view into infinity. Some days she dwells on him – during her morning coffee, when she catches an unnamable whiff of something clean, on the night of Samhain or when her mother exclaims that something is beautiful. She does not begrudge herself the thoughts, even if she does endeavor to silence them. They were a part of her, an undeniable truth about four years of her life that she could never take back.

The memories fade, but the physical marks he left upon her home are removed – scrubbed clean piece by piece. Tom was a conquistador, a naturalist arriving upon her shore and attempting to claim something that had already been found by those native to the place. She thinks of Adsila, of her great-grandmother’s people, and she feels new resolve settle within her as she blights out one by one the signs of his presence upon her land, reclaiming something that had never been his.

It starts with the wardrobe. She, June, and Cash spend the better part of an afternoon removing the clothes she’d purchased for him, folding them and placing them in boxes to be donated. The wardrobe itself she levitates out behind her house and proceeds to demolish splinter by splinter with a NoMaj axe. The act leaves her drenched in sweat and eyes red from crying, but the weighted mantle that she bore day in and day out was perhaps a fraction lighter.

She burns the notes he wrote her. She has them all – essays he’d edited and scraps of writing he’d copied and the long, Latin spells he’d written when he’d challenged her to fly. Florence indulges, reading them all one last time, admiring each perfect letter, the well placed commas and succinct phrasing before crumpling them in her hand and tossing each piece of parchment one by one into the flames. Florence tells herself it is the smoke that brings tears to her eyes this time, but even this lie does not change the fact that she spends the rest of the evening curled on the rug before the embers, shaking with the weight of the words she had just lost.

Florence goes through each book in her personal library, boxing away those titles she had purchased for Tom’s benefit, and anything else that no longer tickled her fancy. Tom Riddle had once told her she was limited in her views of magic. _Well maybe I am_ she thinks to herself, tossing _A Loremaster’s Guide to Elemental Transfiguration_ into a box with all the other rejects. Florence is good at Herbology, and at Potions, and she could sing to trees and stir the wind and she could _fly_ , and she would be damned if the ghost of Tom Riddle would belittle her for the other failings where practical magic was concerned. June and Cash deliver the boxes to Owen’s residence in Savannah where he is now operating the Allman Shipping Empire, her father having retired only a few months prior. If he has any suspicions over the unexplained gifts, he never voices them to his sister.

Florence fights with herself for nearly six months before she decides to take down the painting Tom had given her of Atalanta. After all, _she_ had been the one to truly introduce him to Greek Mythology, why should she be forced to remove that symbolism from her own home? But eventually she could not deny even to herself that each glance at the painting reminded her of a different figure, of a midnight blue set of eyes, of a piercing laugh that tugged at something within her chest. However, decision finally made, Florence found that she could not remove the painting. Her parents, Owen, Albion, and even Forsythe each attempted to remove the painting using a variety of charms, hexes, and NoMaj methodologies, but each was forced to agree that a permanent sticking charm had at some point been applied to the painting, and that it was now as much a part of the home as Florence was. When they’d left with their hands in their pockets, Florence had cast a charm on the figure within, confining the often wandering Atalanta to her golden frame. _At least she can no longer follow me about the house_ , and this fact like so much else would have to be enough.

Florence ships her Glenn Miller records to Radella with a note asking her to visit, and she dumps all of her loose-leaf tea that she’d purchased for Tom into the river, remembering the way his eyes had flashed red during their first ever conversation at the mention of a revolution he knew nothing about. She throws out the vases of dried flowers and reorganizes the sitting rooms and purchases a new quilt for her bed – one that Tom has never shared with her. She writes to MACUSA to have them cast nullification charms on the pocket watch portkey Florence had bestowed upon Tom, and when Albion and Margaret announce that they are expecting a daughter, she gives them the diamond and pearl necklace Tom had presented her with on the night of her debut. If Albion ever tells Margaret where Florence received it, she never discovers.

Only his Dittany tree survives the cleanse, and this because it is a living thing that Florence cannot bear to end. Despite loving a murderer, she finds that she cannot become one herself.

.

.

.

It is nearly a year to the day that Tom and Florence parted ways that she decides to replant the fields that had been burned. The sight of charred, blackened branches outside her window had not grown easier to bear, but as her workload increased with her father’s retirement, Florence had been unable to find time to uproot and replant the entire field alongside all her other duties.

Dew soaks through her tennis shoes as she marches across her back lawn, the sky above her still pale blue in the early gasps of the morning. Florence stretches her arms above her, letting her head fall back until her neck and back give satisfying _pops_ and her arms flop back to her sides. There is a slight breeze in the air, and drawing closer to the charred remains of the field Florence can hear the whistling of wind through the branches, spot the bursts of vibrant green where new lift has sprung from the ashes. Without thinking, a smile smears across Florence’s face.

“Have you figured out what you’re going to do with this plot?” A deep voice calls out from behind her, and Florence turns to see Forsythe strolling across the dew soaked grass, two cups of coffee – one in each hand – precariously balanced as he approaches. Florence waves at him, waiting for him to catch up with her before accepting her mug with a small thanks and proceeding once more towards the edge of the field.

“No, but I did get Albion’s blessing not to put Dittany back in,” Florence says, sipping once from the steaming mug. Forsythe, or more likely June, had added the cream just how she liked it.

“I see, that’s what you needed my help for,” Forsythe laughs, and his green eyes crinkle in the corner as he smiles at her, his copper curls pale in the early morning light. Florence blushes at the obviousness of her request. She had not seen much of Forsythe, nor any other for that matter, over the past year. Between work on the estate and devesting her home of old, dusty memories, Florence felt as if she’d hardly breathed. But the opportunity to plant something new had arisen, and much to her own chagrin, Florence realized she had little to no expertise in large scale growth beyond Dittany, and so she’d called in Forsythe for a favor.

“Are you going to sell whatever you’re putting in, or is it for aesthetics?” Forsythe says, cupping both his hands around his coffee mug as if to keep the warm. His skin is a deep olive, and Florence spots at once a smattering of pale scars along his knuckles that weren’t there before. Noticing her gaze, Forsythe holds his hand out for her inspection.

“What happened?” She asks, running a finger along the ridges of his knuckles. His skin is warm beneath hers, the scar tissue soft as baby’s skin.

“Riding accident,” he laughs, pulling his hand away. “Got thrown off and dragged behind my horse, and my hand was caught under me.”

Florence feels her stomach roil at the thought, but she shakes her head and smiles at him before returning her gaze to the dead trees before her. Florence had not been horseback riding in months, and a twinge of guilt runs through her at the thought. _I owe Viola a ride_ she vows silently to herself.

“So sales or aesthetics?” Forsythe questions again, pulling Florence from the recesses of her mind and back into the moment.

“Aesthetics,” Florence decides on the spot.

“Looks like I owe Albion money – I bet him you’d want to sell whatever you put in,” he admits with another easy smile. This time it is Florence’s turn to laugh, her brows racing up her forehead as she surveys him incredulously.

“Never thought you were the betting type,” she points out.

“Well, you invite me over out of the blue – first time in over half a year – to help you replant a lot you could plant on your own,” he says with a shrug, taking a sip of his coffee before continuing. “I think it’s fair that Albion and I were a bit confused.”

“You two are worthless. If I wanted to sell whatever I put in, I’d have just replanted Dittany.”

“Fair enough,” Forsythe agrees with another smile. Florence stares at his teeth – she’d forgotten how much he smiled.

“Opting for something new,” she adds after a moment, squinting as the first few rays of light peek over the edge of the trees. Pressing a hand to her brow, Florence sets off down one of the rows, her shoes sinking into the still damp earth beneath her feet. Forsythe follows without comment, his boots cracking a stray branch every few steps.

“I now your expertise is in Azalea, but I want something flowering, and ideally something low maintenance. I can’t put in a full English Garden,” Florence explains, glancing over her shoulder at Forsythe, he nods at her but makes no comment, as if encouraging her to continue. “I don’t know if you have any recommendations, I thought perhaps magically modified Hydrangea – something that would bloom year round.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” he voices. “But I think a guelder-rose has more blooms, and they grow larger if you’re looking to make a statement from your back porch. Or you could plant Camellias.”

“ _Camellias_ ,” Florence exclaims, turning to quickly she almost spills her coffee down the front of her clothes. “Why didn’t I think about that, I love them. Adsila used to grow them between some of the fields for fun.”

“If you want Camellias, I have an order form back at my house that I can send over by eagle later today.”

“That’d be brilliant, Forsythe,” Florence says, and she can feel how wide her smile is because it is the first time she has done so in months, the muscles in her face stiff with unfamiliarity, with lack of use. The smile he gives her in return is warm, sage green eyes gentle upon her face.

“What are you going to do about all these trees?” He asks at last, and his voice is quiet, aware as he is how the question will hurt her. Florence feels the corners of her mouth turn downward, and her eyes seek the remains of the Dittany tree closest too her. She’d thought about this for months, but it did not make putting it to words any easier.

“I’ll sing to the earth. Usually during harvest the staff cuts them down, but I’d prefer the land to have them. Swallow them or something like that,” Florence whispers, and her throat is oddly tight, the chill crawling down her spine at odds with the cloudless sky and the chirping of finches and robins in the distance. Without thinking Florence rests her hand on the blackened trunk next to her. There is a puff of ash where her hand meets the bark, and then Florence feels the familiar rush up her skin as the residue of Tom’s magic claws its way up her arm. She shivers, pulling her hand away at once, unprepared for the feeling, for the memories it threatens to unveil.

“I was sad when I heard about the trees,” Forsythe’s voice murmurs behind her, and Florence whirls on the spot. She’d forgotten in the brief moment when she’d felt Tom’s magic that she was not alone. His face is soft, but his jaw is set, as if he is fighting back some form of anger. “I don’t know why you two ended things, in the end it doesn’t really matter. But he had no right to do this to your land. The trees at least were innocent.”

“He let some of my saplings die,” Florence tells Forsythe, her gaze never wavering from his. She’s never told anyone beyond Illini this, but a year after her world had been knocked askew, she finds herself strangely open to the idea of sharing this detail with Forsythe. “That night I went to surprise him, I found his apartment abandoned. He hadn’t been living there for months, and all of the saplings I’d given him had been left un-watered.” She feels a tear roll down her cheek, and then another until finally all that remains of Forsythe’s face is a watercolor of olive skin and sage green. Florence takes in a shuddering breath, tilting her head back to feel the sun upon her skin, and wills the tears to stop. “They were so sad looking – brown and shriveled. I thought I’d never seen anything more terrible, but then he came…” the sobs return. Florence scrunches her face tighter, forcing the words out of her mouth. “He came, and he burned down my fields, and he _laughed_ while he did it.”

She doesn’t remember bursting into tears for a second time, but she feels the heaving in her chest and the sudden warmth as Forsythe pulls her into a hug, cradling her head against his chest with one large, callused hand. Florence presses herself against him, her hands snaking around his waist, nose mashed against the buttons of his shirt that smells of soil and rust and something distinctly male. For several moments he holds her, and Florence allows herself to be held. She cannot remember the last time someone did.

“Here,” Forsythe offers, reaching into his back pocket and pulling a navy blue bandana from his jeans to hand Florence when her sobs subside slightly. With a watery chuckle Florence takes it and wipes at her eyes. He waves her off when she tries to give it back.

“Thank you,” Florence says with a thin smile. “I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Forsythe assures her, and his hand twitches by his side for a moment as if he was going to reach for her, and then thinks better of it.

“I’ve been such an ass, I haven’t even asked how you are,” Florence mutters, again attempting a weak smile as she runs the back of her hand across her cheek to mop up the remaining tears. “How are you? How’s the farm? And Mary Helen?” Forsythe’s face flickers, and one large hand reaches behind his head and scratches the back of his scalp.

“I’m good. The farm is doing really well – the new azalea varieties have been blowing up on the market,” Forsythe says with obvious pride. His eyes flicker to Florence’s for a moment, and then he looks out over the Dittany trees, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Mary Helen and I split up. It was amicable, just wasn’t going anywhere.”

Florence feels a sinking in her gut.

“I’m so sorry, Forsythe, I didn’t know – I wouldn’t have brought it up –” she splutters, crossing her arms before her chest like some form of menial shield. Her stuttering brings his gaze back to hers, and he laughs slightly. For the first time, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s alright, Florence. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. We broke up almost nine months ago – I don’t really even think about it anymore,” he admits with a small shrug, as if embarrassed by his ability to move on. Florence feels a welling of envy within her at his capacity to pick up his life and move forward, but she squashes this at once.

“Christ, eight months?” Florence says, attempting to lighten her tone into something resembling a joke. “I’ve been out of the loop for a bit haven’t I?”

“You’ve been…distracted,” Forsythe agrees, his tone somewhat cool. Florence feels a bristling along her back as her pride flares momentarily, an acrid taste spreading across the base of her tongue, but this too fades after a moment.

“I’ve been a bad friend,” Florence murmurs after a moment, uncrossing her arms and shoving her hands in her pockets. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” Forsythe says with a smile and another scratch to the back of his head, his voice deep and rolling and steady against the rising and falling of Florence’s emotions. “I took bets with your brother about why you’d bother to ask me for help. Nobody’s perfect.”

They smile at each other and make their way back towards Florence’s lawn, discussing Camilla varietals and the possibility of putting in a wisteria trellis down the center of the two fields. They pause when the horizon opens up before them, and Forsythe turns to tell her farewell, but Florence stops him.

“I’m going to give the trees to the land now,” she says, again making her mind up on the spot. _No time like the present_. “Will you stay?”

She doesn’t have to voice that she cannot do it alone out loud. With a small smile, Forsythe nods, holding out his hand for Florence’s empty coffee mug which she hands him. Untying her shoes, Florence tosses them over her shoulder before settling into the familiar stance, the words she has been practicing within her mind surfacing once more.

Florence’s voice is barely more than a whisper when she begins, the slightest breath of wind, but soon her feet are beating a familiar rhythm upon the grass, her hands raised before her, the air humming with the familiar metallic stench of magic. Beneath her the earth shakes, and her voice grows stronger, the words coming faster. Florence lifts her face, and although her eyes are closed, she can feel the sun drying the salt upon her skin, and with a smile she calls for the land to open. Before here there is a sound like a thousand simultaneous shots from a rifle, the cracking of kindling within a fire, and she feels the world shudder beneath her.

When she opens her eyes, nothing remains of the burned fields but a large swathe of overturned soil. A fresh palate. A new beginning.

.

.

.

The hose lets out one final whine as Florence twists the tap shut, letting the last coil fall onto the stack before returning to the wash stall where Viola waits for her, large brown eyes blinking in the afternoon light. They’d gone on a long, languid ride around the perimeter of the property after Florence’s shift had ended, but it had worked her horse into a lather and she was paying the price with a full washing down now. Having avowed to herself to reinvest in her own life after Forsythe’s visit nearly six months ago, Florence had once again picked up riding amongst other things. There were more dinner parties – some even at her house – and she spent weekends in Savannah with Owen or shopping in Charleston with Tallulah or attending plant shows with Forsythe to learn about new florae they could add to their repertoire.

“I’ll have you dry in a moment,” Florence says, patting the side of Viola’s neck. The mare bobs her head slightly, the halter rattling faintly as if nodding her thanks. Florence reaches for a wet brush, but before she can start wringing the water from her horse’s hide, there is a shriek and the clattering of heels on the concrete floor.

“ _Florence!”_ The voice shouts, and tossing the brush back onto the rack, Florence skitters out into the main hall only to see Radella streaming towards her, black hair wild and unruly as she runs down the hall. The dainty girl is red faced and beaming, and her hand is outstretched before her as she moves in at an angle that can only mean one thing. Florence’s mouth falls open.

“Ohmygod,” she rushes so that the three words become one, clapping her hand over her mouth. Radella shrieks again, screeching to a halt before Florence, her hand just inches from her face where the massive diamond could not be unseen. “ _Oh. My. God!_ Radella, congratulations!”

Florence pulls her friend into a hug, lifting her tiny frame off the ground and spinning her in a circle. They both scream in unison, a manifestation of the light, weightless feeling that is building within Florence on her friend’s behalf.

“Did this just happen?” Florence asks, setting Radella down and taking her hand once more to admire the ring.

“A few hours ago,” she admits, her pale skin pink with pleasure. “Owen took me out to drinks overlooking the river, and then he asked me when we got back to his home.”

“We’re you surprised?” Florence asks, her head reeling with shock. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell me he was going to ask! That little weasel!” Radella’s head falls back with laughter at Florence’s indignant expression, and Florence feels a clenching in her gut at the happiness that is etched into every line of her friend’s face. Twenty years old and engaged and fated to have a very happy life. Florence’s own life had turned out very differently.

“I was speechless,” Radella says conspiratorially. “I wish you could have been there, I was so surprised I couldn’t even speak, and Owen got so nervous that he asked a second time and then a third before I could give him an answer!”

“Poor, O,” Florence laughs, squeezing Radella’s hand one final time before letting go. “I’m assuming you’ve just been to see my parents and Albion and Margaret?”

“Yes, I think Eudora started planning the wedding on the spot she was so excited,” Radella says, looping her arm through Florence’s and tugging her towards the entrance to the stables. “And I met baby Lois – she’s an angel.”

“She’s a crier,” Florence snorts, but she smiles anyway.

“Owen says you were made godmother?”

“Albion assures me he already regrets the decision,” Florence says through another smile. “Lois Eudora Allman – named for both her grandmothers and now with me for a godmother, bless her heart.”

“Owen’s back at the big house, your father’s gone to the cellar to get a bottle of champagne to celebrate,” Radella says, pausing just outside the stables.

“I’ve got to dry Viola and put away my tack, but I’ll be there soon,” Florence assures. “Don’t wait on me.”

Radella lets out a small, girlish scream and then turns on the spot, disappearing with a small _pop_ while Florence returns the way they had just come. In silence she finishes her work, leading Viola back to her stall, fighting to keep her mind blank. Days, sometimes weeks, pass now between thoughts of Tom, but the sight of the diamond ring waving before her face brings unbidden the thoughts of her own proposal, of what she had turned down.

_Marry me, Florence. Magic has crafted your soul for mine, we were always meant to be as one._

Florence has forgotten many details over the intervening months, words falling to sentiment and then into a cloud of irreparable haze, but those have never faded. She recalls them as if he stood before her now, ring box clutched in his long, delicate fingers. It is with some surprise that Florence realizes she never even looked at the ring he’d offered her – she has no idea what it looks like. With a small sigh she figure eights her bridle and hangs it upon the appropriate rack before picking up her wand from the shelf and apparating to the main home in order to join the festivities.

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.

The wedding is a small affair, held in a NoMaj church near the heart of London where Radella grew up attending before Hogwarts. Florence’s mother had nearly fainted when she’d heard of the NoMaj tradition of marrying in the bride’s home city, but she’d been appeased when Radella and Owen both promised to hold a one year anniversary celebration on the family estate.

Radella’s black curls and emerald eyes are resplendent in her ivory satin gown, Owen’s narrow face full of more emotion than Florence has ever seen in her life as Radella makes her way down the aisle. Florence watches from the front row, a stinging in her eyes that she tries to blink away, smile after smile stealing across her lips. The ceremony is plain and simple, but Florence thinks she may care for it more than any wizarding wedding she’s been too. Without all of the excess, Owen and Radella take center stage, and even years later she can recall the way their eyes looked when they met, the smiles that had spread across their faces as the other said _I do_.

The reception is held a few blocks away in a gleaming hotel lobby. Clifford had taken it upon himself to pay for two full bars – one in the public eye for the NoMaj guests, and one down the hall and through a concealed door for wizarding guests. The band is a full brass ensemble in full swing by the time they arrive, and Florence’s feet tap upon the marble floors of their own accord as she makes her way towards a bobbing and weaving tray of champagne flutes.

“Florence!” A deep voice calls just as she is about to reach the thin, crystal flutes. Turning with mild exasperation, she sees Forsythe making his way towards her, a tumbler of Firewhiskey in one hand, and in the other a flute of champagne which he holds out to her. A flush crawls across her skin at the gesture, and she accepts it with a small curtsy.

“Thank you, Forsythe. My favorite you know,” she says, taking a small sip, relishing in the way the bubbles play across her tongue. She opens her eyes to find him staring at her, the strong lines of his face at odds with the softness she finds there. Her cheeks redden further.

“I do know,” he says, somewhat sheepishly. “And I also know that you love to dance, so finish that drink, down another, and then we can hit the dance floor.” His easy smile makes Florence bubble over with laughter, simultaneously touched by his gesture and pleased by the invitation.

Forsythe’s dancing has not improved since their last foray into this territory at Florence and Tallulah’s debut, but his calloused hands hold her tight and he is quick to laugh at his mistakes, and before she knows it one song then three have passed and they haven’t separated. They move across the dance floor, spinning and swaying and stealing drinks from passing trays which they help each other finish. They cat-call at a dancing Owen and Radella, and then run giggling hand in hand to the other side of the floor when they catch sight of Eudora Allman sending them death glares. Dancing with Forsythe is easy and comfortable, and she wonders why they have not done this more as the alcohol begins to take a warming affect upon her system. When the music takes a slow turn, Florence’s arms slide up to grip his shoulders without thinking, Forsythe’s own finding her waist with practiced ease.

“Four straight dances together,” Florence tuts, smiling up at him as she presses her chin to his chest. Forsythe cracks his own grin in return, his five o’clock shadow more pronounced in the candlelight. They spin slowly, the sound of a lone horn ringing across the room accompanied by a crooning voice singing a song Florence doesn’t know. “Our mothers are going to talk.”

“I can think of worse fates that having my name tied to yours in the local gossip,” he says, and his hand slides further around to settle at the small of her back. Florence rolls her eyes at him, but she suddenly can feel the way her body is pressed to his, and she stiffens slightly, halting their spinning.

“Can we get another drink?” She asks, ignoring the knowing look in Forsythe’s eye as he nods, taking her hand and pulling her behind him through the crowd. He leads her down the hall to what she assumes is the wizarding bar, when suddenly he tugs her down a side hall and presses a glowing button, a door before them trundling open. Forsythe tugs her inside with a wicked smile, his arm wrapping around Florence’s waist before he presses another button and the elevator begins to surge around them.

“I’ve never been in a non-wizarding elevator before,” Florence marvels, watching as an arrow above the door shows how high they have climbed. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” Forsythe says, and the hand on her waist tightens with boyish excitement, his olive skin flushed with anticipation. Florence rests her head against him and enjoys the remainder of their trip upward in silence, allowing herself to be amazed by the NoMaj inventions that sometimes rivaled magic, warmed by the heat of Forsythe’s bear-sized body.

At last the door dings, and a small marble landing room is revealed to them. Taking her hand without hesitation, Forsythe leads her out and down the hall, turning at the very end and pulling Florence through a heavy door and out onto the roof of the building. Florence feels her mouth fall open as the London skyline twinkles before her, another ripple of shock passing through her when she realizes it’s been almost three years since she last visited the city. _How the times have changed._

“My dad took me up here earlier. We’re staying in the hotel,” Forsythe explains, pulling her after him and over towards the railing. Florence wishes she had a thousand more eyes in her head, letting go of Forsythe and ducking past him to lean across the railing and peer down at the late night revelers below, the telltale flash of automobile lights moving along the streets. There is a rush of warm air, and Florence’s hair flutters around her face, her skin rippling with goosebumps, although whether it is from awe at the view or the breeze she does not know.

“It’s amazing,” Florence gushes, turning to her side to see Forsythe leaning with his hip against the railing, adjusting the cuffs on his tuxedo seemingly without thought. Her next line of praise falls silent upon her lips as she takes in once more the now recognizable softness in his gaze, the gentle flicker of his eyes to her lips for one moment and then back to her own umber stare. He smiles, and then looks back the way they came, as if abashed to be caught in the act of admiring her.

“What?” Florence probes as he begins to laugh quietly, his head falling back so that Florence can trace the Grecian profile of his nose, the square line of his jaw, the curve of his throat. She’s never noticed these things about Forsythe before, not really. He’d always been handsome, and he’d been her best friend’s older brother. She’d never stopped to see those traits that made him uniquely attractive, but here, staring at his laughing face backlit by the London skyline, Florence is overwhelmed by all the things she’s never seen before. Her jaw goes slightly slack.

“Just laughing at myself I guess. Eighteen year old me would have cut off an arm and a leg to get you up here alone with me,” he says, and his voice is rich and slow. Florence swallows.

“And what about the twenty…” Florence blanks, realizing that she doesn’t even know how old Forsythe is any more. “How old are you anyway? Christ you must be ancient,” Florence laughs, and she feels the glow of champagne through her veins, the flush across her skin as his sage eyes meet hers once more.

“Twenty-five thank you – same age as Owen,” he says through a luminescent grin.

“And what does twenty five year old Forsythe think about having me alone on this rooftop?” Her heart pounds within her chest, and glancing down at her hands which are still wrapped around the railing, she notes that her knuckles have turned white.

“Well, as it turns out, the twenty-five year old Forsythe feels much the same as the eighteen year old Forsythe might,” he confirms, his smile fading slightly as he moves a step closer. Their hips meet against the rail, and Florence can feel the exhale Forsythe releases upon her shoulder.

She watches without moving as he lifts a slightly trembling hand to her hair, tucking a stray strand of caramel waves behind her ear. When she does not stop him, Forsythe’s hand glides down to her neck, pausing there where he can run his thumb over her pulse.

“I’ve only ever been good at one thing in my life, and that’s plants,” Forsythe says with a quiet chuckle, but his face is serious, green eyes wide and earnest. “So forgive me if I say this wrong,” he pauses, his thumb and ember burning a trail across her throat. “But I think you’re wonderful, Florence. Wonderful and beautiful and just the right mix of strong and crazy.”

Florence swallows at this admission, and she can feel the way his thumb moves with her adam’s apple. Everything inside of her is tight, her skin flashing between too hot and too cold, her eyes riveted to his as if there is nothing else in the world in that moment. She wants to tell him he is beautiful too, but she hasn’t thought anyone was since…well since _him_ , yet forming the words seems like an insurmountable task. Instead she lets out a shaky breath, and Forsythe smiles.

“You know, I’d love it if you’d say something right about now,” he encourages gently. “I’m not drunk enough to sit here in comfortable silence after an admission like that.”

“Just the right mix of crazy?” Florence prods, her voice airy as her head becomes lighter, unsure what else to say. Forsythe snorts.

“You talk to trees, Florence,” he explains, but his voice is without judgement and his thumb begins to move once more, his fingertips pressing into her shoulder and easing her tension. “But what about the rest of it? I’ll say it again if you’d like – so you know I meant it – ”

“Forsythe, you don’t have –”

“You’re beautiful,” he interrupts, and his fingers dig further into her skin. “And you’re wonderful, and I’ve woken up thinking about you every day for years since that morning you came over to my house and I showed you my blue azaleas.”

Florence reels at this fact, her gaze swimming slightly as she wracks her brain back through the intervening years to discover just how long ago that was. At last she realizes that it was during the spring of 1945, almost five years ago now, and her incredulity grows.

“But Mary Helen?”

“What about her? I wasn’t going to sit around waiting for you. You were with him, and everyone thought the two of you were going to get married,” he says, and Florence nods, more to herself than anyone else.

“Did you end things with her for me?” She asks. Forsythe’s hand on her shoulder flexes for a moment, but he does not withdraw.

“No,” he says, and his deep voice is cooler than she has ever heard it. “Despite my feelings for you, I can safely assert that not every decision I have made was with you in mind.”

“Of course not,” Florence agrees, embarrassed by her own insinuation. They fall into silence again, Forsythe’s hand cupping her neck, the tips of his fingers pressing into the muscle along her back while Florence collects her breath, the whirling thoughts that seem to be floating away upon the London breeze before she can register them.

“I,” she whispers at last when his hand stills and it feels as if he may pull away. Florence glances up at him again, and she notices that he is not taller than Tom, but he is broader – stronger. “I am not accustomed to having to _think_ about my feelings,” she admits. “When I was with… with _Tom_ I never stopped to think at all, it just all happened, and at every turn I just knew how I felt about him and what I wanted. And then after…well… after _him_ , I tried not to think about my feelings at all.”

Forsythe’s hand is warm against her skin, and Florence can feel the calluses that run across his palms. They are working hands, worn like old leather, but no less soft because of their use. He nods at her words, but does not speak, giving her room to continue. Florence swallows again, wishing for the first time that the wedding could have been in America – that they didn’t have to hold this conversation in a city that sang with the memory of _him_ , the ghost of what she’d lost.

“I don’t know how I feel about everything you’ve said, but I do find that I care _enormously_ that you think them,” she whispers, this time her own turn to give a sheepish shrug. Forsythe’s eyes are wider than the moon, the look on his face like melted butter that makes continuing to speak one of the more difficult things Florence has ever done because _Christ_ he’s beautiful and how had she never seen it before? Truly seen it. “And I don’t know if I’m ready to jump of this balcony with you tonight, but I think…I think I’d be open to finding out.”

Forsythe’s other hand finds her waist, shifting her slightly so that they are front to front. His thumb slides up her neck to press into the hollow beneath her jaw, tilting her face up towards his. She can smell the Firewhisky on his breath, but also the floral scent of azalea he never escapes and the musky scent she has come to learn can only be Forsythe. It is a pleasing mix, and Florence breathes deeply.

“I suppose,” he says with a strangled half grin and a shaking laugh, “it would have been too much to hope for you to express your undying love for me after all these years.” His honesty makes the pocket of levity that has been living within her chest all evening bubble over, and Florence laughs, loud and long and she reaches for him, her hand wrapping around the lapel of his jacket to steady herself. Forsythe laughs too, the hand on her neck moving at last to run through her hair, fingers pulling deliciously at her scalp until she is humming with pleasure.

“Perhaps,” Florence agrees once they have settled. “But I’d like for you to know I think you’re marvelous, Forsythe. And ungodly handsome, and probably the most kindhearted person I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. And whatever feelings I still have to figure out, none of that will change.”

“Are you trying to give me a big head?” He teases, but Florence is so close to his face she can see the flush across his olive cheeks and the smile that threatens to break across his façade. She’s amazed by the openness she finds written into his skin – not a mask in sight.

“You started it,” Florence counters with a smirk. “But I already have a big head, so you weren’t risking much.”

“Thank you for telling me,” he says, this time more subdued. “And I won’t ever rush you, about anything between us,” he begins, his voice taking on an odd echo. “But I also want you to know I’m not going to wait for you. I’m mad about you, Florence, but I—”

“You’re an independent person who shouldn’t have to wait on anyone,” Florence cuts in, giving him an easy smile. “Of course you shouldn’t, Forsythe. I wouldn’t expect you too.”

They stand in silence for a moment, this one warmer than any previous. Without asking if she can, Florence reaches for Forsythe’s bowtie, tugging at it until it slips away, her fingers making light work of the top few buttons. He does nothing to stop her, but when she at last tucks the decorative garment into his jacket pocket, he raises a thick, copper eyebrow at her in question.

“You look better slightly disheveled,” she says with a smile she knows is wicked, and Forsythe’s responding grin meets her halfway.

“Our mothers really are going to faint. We’ve been gone for ages, and I’ll be coming back undressed? What will Spectre think?” He gasps with mock horror, the hand around her waist growing bolder still until there is no air between them and Florence’s head rests upon his shoulder. She snakes her arms around his torso, surprise by just how broad he is, despite knowing him her entire life.

“I can think of worse fates that having my name tied to yours,” Florence murmurs, returning his words to him from earlier in the night.”

“We should go back down.”

“Hmm,” is all Florence voices in return. Forsythe’s hands fall from around her as he steps back, and with another flushed expression, he takes her hand, pressing her palm to his lips for just a moment before interlacing their fingers and beginning to pull her towards the door. Florence watches him as if in a trance. She has the tearing feeling in her chest that she gets when a new sapling first pokes it’s head above the ground – a sight that is as familiar to her as sunrise, and yet heart rendering beautiful, as if it is the first and not the thousandth time she is seeing it, the birth of a new life that leaves her breathless.

“Forsythe,” she says, planting her feet so that he’s limited by the combined span of their interlaced hands. He looks back at her, and something in her gaze gives him reason to smile because he does so – full and broad and enough to make the warm spot in her chest increase tenfold.

“Yes, Florence?”

“If they’re going to talk anyways, will you at least kiss me?” She asks, and something in her feels reckless, but something deeper, more innate, the desire to consume and mark and brand him as hers, burns brightly. Florence takes a step closer to him, her hand tightening around his. “I mean, if they’re going to talk, let’s at the least give the rumors a little credence—”

Her words are cut off by a pair of lips meeting her own, by one hand tangling itself in her hair, the other winding its way so far around her waist that he nearly swallows her. Florence’s yelp of surprise is swallowed by the warmth of Forsythe’s mouth – smothered by the taste of whiskey and the glow that seems to erupt throughout her system, blooming from where their lips move in tandem. Florence’s hands bury themselves in Forsythe’s hair, stretching onto her toes so that any air that may have existed between the two of them is crushed. She lets out an involuntary whimper when she feels his teeth close around her bottom lip, a shiver clawing its way down her spine.

They break apart a long moment later, both panting, eyes searching the others, sage and umber locked in a silent dance. Florence’s mind feels hazy, overcome again with the thought that _this_ had been right there all along, but before she can even think to form words, Forsythe’s lips have found hers again. This time they are chaste but hurried, pressed to her mouth and her cheeks and the corner of her jaw as if he is making up for lost time.

“Florence,” he whispers into her skin between kisses. “Fuck, _Florence._ ”

She giggles at the mangled way he says her name, at the fact that he is cussing because good, gentile Forsythe Blount has never cursed in front of a lady before, and something within her sings at having reduced him too it.

“Come on, honey,” Florence laughs when Forsythe has at last released her enough for both of them to breathe. “Let’s go back down.”

He nods, leaning in for one final peck before wrapping an arm around her shoulders and leading Florence back towards the door. She glances out over the London skyline once more, her eyes searching for something she knows she’ll never find, and then allows herself to be pulled inside once more.

She straightens Forsythe’s hair as they wait for the elevator, he helps to wipe away her smeared lipstick, but all adjustments are thrown to the wind when the door _dings_ and trundles open to reveal an empty lift. Within seconds Florence finds her back to the corner, Forsythe’s frame boxing her in, and his lips are upon hers once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you love it? Do you hate it? Are you surprised? I have no idea what I think all of you will think, but let me just say this little conundrum has been in the words for MONTHS mwahahahah. 
> 
> Everyone stay safe, get outside when you can, and drink lots of water! Xoxo


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I'd just like to take a moment and say thank you for the comments on the last chapter!! Whether you like the developments, you hate them, your anxious to see where things go - all of your opinions are so valid, and more importantly Im still touched to the very core of my being that after all this time you people are still here and willing to share your thoughts. I know all of this is uber cheesy, but I just want you to know that I spend a lot of time thinking about this story and to have your feedback, whether its a two second "thanks!" or an in depth dive of your theories/opinions is honestly the greatest gift I can ever receive as a writer and I'm so thankful!!!
> 
> I'm finally writing the way I was before - I'm almost done with chapter 52, but then from there I don't know how many more. I always get myself into trouble when I try and guess how my writing will span out in actuality. All of this to say, still so much to come!!
> 
> Thanks for being here and happy readingXx

**Chapter 49**

“Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one’s life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one’s side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music, perhaps . . . perhaps . . . love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath.”   
― L.M. Montgomery

It is, Florence thinks as she pulls on a pair of jeans in front of the mirror, noting with a smirk the bruise at the base of her neck that Forsythe had given her last night when he’d dropped her off at home, how any relationship hoping to last should start. There was a spark – but then again there had been a spark between her and Tom, a flame that they had fed with careless abandon until it had grown into something monstrous and unattainable. She liked Forsythe, he was more handsome than anyone had any right being, but they moved slower, more cautious, adding kindling one piece at a time. Perhaps they were all too aware of the years they’d spent growing up, of what it would mean for their families if this went wrong, or perhaps they were both just older, a few failed relationships under their belts. 

Cautious, however, did not mean that Florence stopped him when he leaned in to kiss her, raking his stubble lined chin across her face until she shrieked and pushed him away laughing. And it did not mean that she stopped his hands when they wandered father than was strictly appropriate, especially when they were far out in the fields where no one could see them, nor did she stop herself from reaching for him when the urge struck, and she certainly didn’t stop inviting him over to help planting the camellias they’d decided on, or for dinner, or just to see him. And if he stayed longer that was strictly necessary on these visits, well that was no one’s business but their own.

Cautious simply meant that around their families they minded their distance and paused only momentarily to give each other knowing looks from across sitting rooms. If their parents noticed, they did not say a word, but Florence feels Eudora’s eyes watching her more and more often, and the Blounts happen to be present at more and more family events without an explanation.

“June,” Florence calls out as she pulls on her boots, stuffing her jeans down into the legs before tugging an faded old NoMaj baseball t-shirt on over her head. Florence feels energy pulsing through her system, the strange feeling of being late even though she knows if she leaves now, she will arrive at Forsythe’s farm early. The elf appears with a loud _crack_ , curtsying deeply.

“Missy Florence!” The elf chirped, and Florence squatted before her, patting the top of her balding head.

“Do you have the Dittany Concentrate ready to go?”

“Yes, it’s by the front door on the table stand,” June says, clapping her hands together slightly.

“Amazing, thank you, Junebug.”

Her footsteps thunder across the floor in her boots as she makes her way down the stairs two at a time, snatching up the crystalline vial in such a hurry that she nearly knocks it off the dresser. Catching it, Florence presses a hand to her stomach, taking a deep, steadying breath before stepping into the parlor, scooping out a fistful of Floo powder, and stepping into the flames.

She resurfaces in one of the many Blount sitting rooms, spluttering slightly from having swallowed ash, and stepping out onto the carpet without a thought for the mess she will make. It is a bright space with East facing windows that capture an early morning sunrise over the blooming azalea fields in all its easy magnificence. Florence moves without hesitation to the window, leaning against the frame to admire the acres and acres as far as the eye can see of rolling pink and white and sometimes blue blooms until trees or hills cut them off from sight. Forsythe had managed the transition of running the farm from his father to himself with undeniable grace, a comfort with the land that was reflected in the lush fields, the increase in Blount azalea sales across the globe.

“Florence,” a deep voice calls, echoing off the wooden floors to greet her, and she turns to see Forsythe approaching through the doorway, his copper hair still slightly damp from his shower. A smile breaks across her face, and without thinking she moves to meet him, her arms wrapping around his torso as his hands find her face in a practiced moment of ease they have grown accustomed to sharing. “You’re early,” he adds under his breath before kissing her, thumbs pressing into her cheekbones as he angles her face upward to meet his.

“Well, you wrote to me last night telling me you had a surprise for me,” Florence teases when they break away a moment later. “You know better than to get me excited about something and then be surprised when I act on it.”

“Fair enough,” Forsythe agrees, leaning back in her grasp so that he can take her in. “Good, you’re dressed for the field. Let’s go.”

“Not wasting any time?”

“Not today I’m not,” he says, and his face is light with such childish excitement that Florence’s entire abdomen clenches. Her hand slides into his without thinking, the other holding the flask of Dittany Concentrate.

“I brought this for you,” she says, holding it out to him as they move. There is no pomp and circumstance with gift giving between them – when one has something for the other, it is given and cherished as nothing more and nothing less. The break from formality is refreshing, as is the low whistle that Forsythe lets out when he looks down at the object extended to him. Forsythe’s eyes widen as he takes in the silver and sage liquid floating within the crystal sphere, and his smile broadens as he takes it from her, his hand gentle despite its crushing size. “It’s from the first batch of concentrate brewed from trees I grew all the way from seedlings. I wanted you to have one.”

“Thank you, Florence,” he says, and his usually gentle tones hum with something deeper, his face dipping to hers for a moment so that he can press his lips to her forehead as they walk. He leads her out onto the back porch, setting the concentrate vial carefully on the table by the door before letting the screen door slam behind him and pulling Florence down and out into the sunlight.

“You have to put this on,” he says with another smile, pulling out a bandana from his back pocket, folding it over in imitation of what is clearly supposed to be a blindfold. Florence’s brows shoot across her forehead, but she nods, and lets him wrap the weathered fabric around her eyes.

“I can feel you shaking,” Florence says as Forsythe secures the knot at the back of her head.

“Excited,” is all he manages to respond, wrapping his arms around her from behind before burying his face in her neck and pulling Florence with him into side-along apparition. They reappear from the pressing darkness on the far side of the Blount farm – Florence only aware of this because the birdsong is different here, and she can smell the mossy river soil which can only be found at the rear of their expansive property. Forsythe’s hands tighten on her sides for a moment and then he releases her, taking her hand and tugging her to his side so that he can guide her forward.

“I swear if you pull this blindfold off to show me an empty field, I’ll punch you,” she grumbles, but her face is wide with a smile that she cannot repress and her fingers sink into his side like she is a cat raking him with her claws, intent never to let go.

“I’m not mean enough to do that twice,” he says with a deep bellow, referencing the prank he’d pulled a month prior when he’d done exactly this only to whip of the blindfold and reveal – _nothing._

“Just checking.”

After only a few steps Forsythe stops, turns Florence slightly, and then his hand creeps to the back of her head. She can feel again the tremor in his body, like a hurricane bottled inside of him, and she smiles again – his joy infectious.

“Ready?” He whispers, and Florence jumps slightly as his breath tickles her ear and glides across her neck. Her throat goes dry, and she nods. Without wasting another second, he pulls off the blindfold, leaving Florence to blink her way back into the light.

The field is on fire – an ocean of tangerine and apricot and the deepest ginger – blooms of every exacting shade of orange so that each ruffle of the wind makes it appear as if flames are roaring across the horizon. Florence’s mouth falls open, her eyes threatening to pop out of her head because Forsythe has done it again – invented something new and magnificent and _beautiful_. She does not feel herself move, only aware that one moment she stands before the flowers, and the next she is among them, the shadow across her back the only sign that Forsythe is following her.

Up close she can see that similar to the blue azaleas, this particular species has petals that begin at the pales of oranges, like the hint of sunset, near the lip, and grow steadily darker until they were a dark amber at the center. These blooms are smaller, the size of her palm fully opened, like tiny, delicate hatchlings that make her eyes water and her stomach clench. Florence’s fingers brush across them without hesitation, the flowers waxy and soft and she has the strange urge to bury her face in them, to smear pollen across her skin, to inhale the subtle scent of honey that the flowers are giving off until it is all she can smell ever again.

“ _Forsythe_ ,” she whispers, stopping without thinking to press her face to a particularly lovely cluster of flowers, the scent of honey richer up close. “They’re _beautiful_.”

She turns at last to see that he is only just behind her, his square face so soft she feels as if she could melt into it. The familiar crinkle at the corner of his eyes is there – the sign of a smile that he cannot repress any more than she can in the presence of nature’s wonder – in this thing they share together. He reaches for her, one callused hand tangling in her hair at the base of her head, scratching against her scalp in the manner that he knows leaves her shivering.

“They’re for you,” he murmurs quietly, and gone is the excitement in his voice, only the echoing, hollow vestiges of something stronger Florence cannot name. “The blue ones were for you too, but I couldn’t tell you at the time, I don’t even think I really knew it until I saw you amongst them anyways.” Florence feels her lip wobble, her knees grow slightly weak, and she reaches for him, her fingers closing around the waistband of his jeans to steady herself. He always steadies her – he had when she’s replanted the burned fields, and here he was steadying her now.

“I started to design them ages ago,” he says, and his voice is still quiet and echoing, reverberating through the air until the words settle upon her chest, nesting there. “I couldn’t decide on anything, but I kept picturing you in the field – showing them too you – and orange seemed right.”

Florence lets the first few tears spill from her eyes without trying to bat them away. She remembers when Tom gave her the diamond necklace, how it had felt powerful, heavy upon her throat, and how she’d loved it as a symbol of _him_ upon her. Glancing at the flowers around her now, the thought seems juvenile, the whims of a lesser version of herself, reduced only to an ornament. She can hear the voices of the azaleas, strong and vibrant with what she knows is impeccable care from Forsythe, and the thought that he designed them _for_ her, cared for them on _her_ behalf makes her vision swim with tears and her chest feel so tight it might explode.

“They’re perfect,” she says, and Florence laughs, more tears spilling down her face. Her body is glowing, and without realizing it she is floating a few inches off the ground, levity made real as her spirit sings alongside the flowers and the wind and the stirring emotion that threatens to overpower her on behalf of the man before her. “God, they’re so perfect I don’t even know what to say.”

“So these are happy tears?” He asks, clearly unconcerned that she is now eye to eye with him as her body floats slightly higher. The hand in her hair tightens slightly, preventing her from lifting any further away from him.

“The happiest.”

She looks at Forsythe, and her smile feels like it might rip her face in two – wide and painful and still not nearly large enough. She thinks of Tom – not with longing, but in a clinical, detached manner that one might watch a ship coming into dock or a bird alight upon a tree branch. He’d been like a genetic super-seed, predestined to be successful, containing a genomic code that should have flourished anywhere, and yet he’d been malnourished, ill cared for, and his roots had withered and died, erasing any biological advantage he might have had. Forsythe had none of these advantages, but perhaps they were the stronger together because of it – for watering and caring and selecting a time and a place to grow together with the utmost attention.

Love had struck her twice – once like a meteor, fated and inevitable, burning bright and then gone – the second time steady, the fine mesh of fibrous roots, the stable meandering of a river towards its eventual destination.

Florence reaches for his face, cupping his chin in hers and pulling him in for a kiss, allowing Forsythe to drag her back to the ground so that he can pull her flush against him. His body is warm, threatening to swallow hers with its sheer size, and she laughs into his mouth when she feels his hands creep beneath her shirt, the pads of his fingers sinking into the skin of her waist.

“What have you been telling everyone when you were working on these?” Florence asks, when they break away, slightly more breathless than before.

“No one knows besides Tallulah, and you know that she could care less about what’s going on out on the estate,” he says with a wry smile.

“Will you tell them you made them for me? Please?” She asks, and her face threatens to break at the light that glistens in Forsythe’s eyes.

“You know what kind of gossip you’re asking me to stir up don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do,” she says, pressing her lips to his once, twice, a third time. “And while you’re at it, you can tell them we’re dating.” She kisses him again, this time hard and frenzied, like he might disappear from her grasp. “And anything else you want to tell them too.”

He laughs as he spins her in a circle, his face buried in her neck, his joy so abundant that she can feel it flickering in his magic, in the tendrils of heat that pass from his body to hers, in the rattling vibrations in his chest that mirror those within her own. _How wonderful, how affirming to have chosen this_ Florence thinks, wrapping her arms around his neck, laughing alongside Forsythe.

“For the love of all that’s good, can I take you back to the big house?” He asks, panting as they come to a stop. His pupils are wide, and Florence cannot resist tracing her fingers over the flush in his cheeks. “Well, to my room more specifically?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Florence teases, and her shriek of surprise is swallowed by apparition as Forsythe pulls her against him again.

.

.

.

With the Floo’s to their bedrooms connected, Florence has to do little more than pull off her boots after work before stepping into the green flames and calling out for Forsythe’s home. His room has deep navy walls and dark oil, still-life paintings that move with wind no one can feel, the wide floorboards slightly warped from age as Florence skirts across them to the bathroom.

Without hesitation she pulls her shirt over her head, tossing it into his clothes hamper as she reaches for the shower nozzle. She’d been working extended hours for the past few months, slowly transitioning many of her responsibilities on the farm over to Albion and his more than capable staff in preparation for a time in which she would no longer work there. Most days, she follows after Alb, pointing out instances where native magic could solve a problem faster than traditional growing methods, teaching him the words and the songs he would need to know in order to run the farm in the proper Allman way – one with the land.

Her muscles ache as she steps out of her muddy jeans, and without meaning to, a groan escapes Florence’s lips as the stream of warm water connects with her skin. She’d hardly had a moment beyond the weekends to see Forsythe, hence the connected bedrooms. Their relationship may have been brought into a more public life, but this detail they left unspoken for obvious reasons.

The water is like a soothing balm upon her battered body, and with a deep sigh, she reaches for the shampoo, lathering it slowly into her hair where she feels a few clumps of dried dirt break loose from her waves. There is a rattling of footsteps across the creaking floorboards out in Forsythe’s bedroom, and Florence smiles when she hears the familiar sound of a belt hitting the wooden floors. Mere moments later, the shower curtain is pulled back and the sun kissed visage of Forsythe Blount joins her in the steam.

“You’re late,” Florence whispers against his lips as he brushes his mouth against hers before shifting her to stand beneath the stream of water himself. Florence’s gaze traces the trickles of water that trail down his chest, blushing at the urge to run her hands across the flat expanse of tanned skin that overwhelms her despite this being a daily ritual.

“And you’re staring,” he says, raising a brow at her as he reaches over her shoulder for the soap.

“I’m always staring, as you like to point out,” Florence mutters, feeling her face grow red. Forsythe laughs, but moves out of the water so she can wash out her hair. She looks away pointedly as his soapy hands move lower across his body, her skin burning with its previous embarrassment.

“I told Mimsy to make us a good dinner, so you will have to put clothes back on unfortunately,” Forsythe says, leaning forward to nip at her shoulder before spinning them again so that he once more has the stream.

“Absolute betrayal,” Florence groans, but she smiles at him and kisses him one more time before peeling back the curtain and stepping out, pulling the robe that Forsythe had purchased on her behalf from its rack. She seats herself at the vanity, reaching for the curlers that she knows are stored in the bottom shelf, listening silently as Forsythe hums something off tune behind her. Once her hair is properly rolled, she reaches for her wand, casting a charm so that a steady stream of warm air rushes from the tip, slowly drying her hair. Forsythe is out of the shower before she’s finished, toweling down his body with unusual haste before scampering into his bedroom, surprisingly light on his feet for someone so large.

Florence is pulling out the last roller when he ducks back into the bathroom. His copper hair is still wet, but he’s dressed himself in a pair of casual, pale gray slacks – his navy button down only halfway buttoned, the olive toned expanse of his chest open to Florence’s constantly roving eyes. She smiles at him in the mirror as he approaches from behind, his hands resting upon her shoulders, eyes meeting hers in the glass.

“I forgot I wanted to get a nice bottle of wine from the cellar,” he says, his thumbs massaging into her shoulders. Florence feels her body slump backwards against him, and she nods lazily. “Don’t take too long, I’m starving,” he adds with a kiss to the top of her head and one final glance at the mirror before making his exit. Florence smiles to herself as she listens to his retreating footsteps, realizing that in his rush he forgot shoes.

It is twenty minutes later, barefoot as Forsythe and dressed in a simple wool skirt, her own blouse unbuttoned at the top, that Florence makes her way down the stairs still trying to ease the tension from her day from her muscles. Forsythe is waiting for her at the base of the stairs, leaning against the railing, hands shoved deep into his pockets and legs crossed at the ankles. He smiles like she is the sun, and for one moment she stills, hand upon the railing, fixated by his gaze.

“Fast enough for you?” She asks, reaching out for him with both hands, grasping his shoulders and jumping down the last three stairs at once. He catches her with mock fragility, his face warping with agony as he sets her lightly upon the ground like she weighs nothing at all.

“Faster than usual, I’ll give you that,” he says, expression returning to normal as he loops her arm through his and tugs her down the hall.

“Are Tallulah and your parents eating with us too?” She asks, noting that each room they pass is dark. She can smell something sweet on the air as they draw close to one of the smaller dining rooms, and her stomach gives a betraying growl. Forsythe smirks at the sound, but he shakes his head no. As the head of the estate, he’d taken over possession of the main home. His parents and Tallulah still resided in the house but they’d moved into the West wing of the home in a similar manner to Albion, Margaret, and her own parents.

“No, I made dinner reservations for them in town that I told them they weren’t allowed to miss,” Forsythe admits with a grin. But before Florence has a moment to dwell upon this detail, Forsythe is steering her through the doorway, pushing her before him slightly as the dining room is revealed.

Florence gasps, coming to a halt and causing Forsythe to run into her with a surprised chuckle before his arms snake around her waist. Every available surface is filled with blooms – the familiar orange petals of her azalea living in Forsythe sized vases in each corner, in silver bowls both low and high upon the center of the table, running like garland along the crown molding of the ceiling, petals falling from the ceiling in a steady, magical stream. The room smells like walking into a beehive, the sweet scent of honey filling her nose within seconds as she tries to take in the literal greenhouse that Forsythe has crafted for her within the room. Outside, the sun is just beginning to set, the sky fading into dark reds and ambers.

“Forsythe, what have you done,” she breathes, and turns in his grasp to look up at him. His typically gentle face is alight with a broad smile, sage eyes gleaming in the flickering candlelight as he stoops to kiss her once, briefly.

“Come on, I meant it when I said I was starving,” he murmurs against her lips, sheepish in the face of her praise, and releasing her, Forsythe pulls Florence over to the table. She looks expectantly at the chair, but allows herself to be drawn past the setting and over towards the window with mingled amusement and confusion as Forsythe once more wraps her in a hug from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder as they take in the sunset together.

“Feeling contemplative this evening?” She asks, her eyes roving over the neat rows of flowering azaleas beneath the reddening sky. Forsythe hums deep in his chest, the vibrations sending shivers down Florence’s back, but he says nothing in response. His grip loosens slightly on her waist for a moment, and then the light catches something beneath her eye and he looks down to where Forsythe’s hands are pressed into her stomach.

The velvet box looks small in his hands, fragile and delicate as strong fingers peel back the lid to reveal a diamond ring, a large stone cut in such dazzling proportions it momentarily renders Florence blind. Her hand trembles over his, her breaths shortening as she suddenly becomes aware of every place where their bodies are touching.

“I know traditionally I’m supposed to get on my knee,” Forsythe says, and she can feel his breath on her ear, his low voice humming with poorly contained excitement. “But I bought this the day after we got back from London before I even knew if you’d give me a real chance, so I’d say there’s nothing very traditional about this entire situation.”

Florence marvels at the calmness in his voice, at how steady his arms are around her when she feels as if one breath of wind could send her flying, her mind oddly light, her skin burning like a thousand fires. There is an ache within her chest that she cannot name, but she wants to prod him on, to drive him to the finish because her answer sits on the tip of her tongue, waiting to be given.

“But regardless of tradition, you would make me the happiest man alive, Florence, if you’d consent to wearing this ring. If you’d marry me?” He adds, as if remembering at the last moment that it is supposed to be a question. “I know how strongly you feel about your farm – you can keep working there if you’d like, but if you say yes, all of what’s mine is yours – we could grow something new together – we can grow whatever you want.” She turns to look over her shoulder at him, determined that he should see her face when she gave her answer. He’s smiling before her mouth has even opened, the answer written plain upon ever line of her body.

“Yes, Forsythe,” she murmurs. “Yes I’ll marry you.”

The ring slides onto her finger, magically enhanced to tighten to just the right size, a warm weight upon her skin like her own personal sun. He kisses her after that, long and deep as if the touch of their lips is the only thing left for him to claim, the only thing he will ever need. Florence’s arms wrap around her neck as she kisses him back, and never once does she think of Tom, of what could have been.

Forsythe is what was.

.

.

.

It turns out that neither Florence nor Forsythe have any skill at planning a wedding, and perhaps even less desire. Tallulah and Eudora and even Lizzie from afar send them near daily eagles with recommendations for florists and possible fabric swatches for the tablecloths. Most often Florence and Forsythe read them in bed together, laughing manically at the details that sent their mothers and sisters into a frenzy until they are distracted once more by a stray flash of skin or a swipe of a hand and allow themselves to be carried away by more pleasant activities.

“I have waited my entire life for you and my brother to fall in love,” Tallulah bemoans as she and Florence parade up and down the aisle of a china store, considering options for her registry. She’d begged Forsythe to come with her, but he’d laughed until he’d cried and then left her to his sisters devices. _Bastard_ Florence thinks with a small smile. “So could you _please_ just do me a favor and let me help you plan?”

“No,” Florence says with ease, turning to give the other girl a broad grin. “We don’t want a big wedding, and we certainly don’t want whatever hell-storm you and my mother have cooked up for the two of us.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Tallulah groans, holding up a gold rimmed plate that Florence grimaces at.

“I’m aware, my mother made sure to tell me every day growing up.”

“Have you at least decided upon flowers?”

“Azaleas,” Florence replies with ease, looking closely at a blue and white set of plates that has caught her eye. “The ones Forsythe made for me.”

“Orange? On your wedding day?” Tallulah says through an audible grimace. Florence smiles, remembering that part of the reason she and Forsythe had chosen the flowers was because the gaudy color was certain to upset their nagging families.

Nearly two hours later she arrives back at the Blount home, traipsing up the stairs and down the hall towards the study where she knows she will find her fiancé. The word sends a chill through her, and she represses the girlish urge to giggle. Forsythe is indeed in his study, hunched over a long list of names, his palms pressing into his temples as if his head might explode at any moment.

“You look miserable,” she says, sweeping across the room and seating herself without pretense in his lap, one arm draping itself around his shoulders while the other turns the list towards her.

“How was china shopping.”

“Terrible, as you predicted,” Florence says lightly, the hand on his shoulder tightening for a moment. “Have we gotten any more RSVPs?”

“The Greengrass family politely declined, as did Pyrrhus, but Lizzie will be in attendance,” Forsythe says, passing her two cards. Florence had expected this – she did not know what Tom was doing in England or even if he was in England, she’d heard neither hide nor hair of his activities. But all the same, whether he was still running his strange boys club or traveling the world as he’d always wanted too, she doubted any of his followers would be welcome to step away for a week and attend her own wedding to a man that was not Tom. It was enough that Lizzie was risking her husband’s wrath to be here with her in the end.

“And Dumbledore?” Florence asks.

“Another no, although he sends his warmest regards. Why you wanted to invite an old professor is beyond me,” Forsythe says, leaning his head against her shoulder.

“Should we just throw all this away and go to Peru and get married?” Florence asks, partially teasing, the other part serious.

“Why Peru?”

“First place I thought of,” Florence admits through a yawn, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth in an attempt to stifle it.

“You know, when I die, I’d like for it be in your arms when I’m old and gray, not because my mother’s revenge fantasy finally succeeded,” Forsythe says, propping his chin on her shoulder.

“Alright,” Florence agrees easily, pressing her lips to his for a fleeting moment.

His arms tighten around her, and they do no more planning for the rest of the afternoon.

.

.

.

In the end, Eudora and Tallulah get their way on most things, but the chorus of singing cherubs and the full orchestra that plays during the ceremony pale in comparison to the look in Forsythe’s eye as her father walks her down the aisle. She’s so taken with the smile upon his face, the fresh shave across his chin, that she doesn’t even notice the doves that are released behind them nor the song of bonding that makes the air hum with magic incarnate. In her hand the orange azalea bouquet gives off the subtle scent of honey, and she forces herself to exercise any and all of her self-control not to slide the ring on Forsythe’s finger immediately and then apparate somewhere more private. The winkles in the corners of his eyes as he grins down at her suggests that he feels the same way.

“You know,” Florence whispers out of the corner of her mouth as they stand before the altar, their names having just been announced to the cheering crowd as man and wife. “Forsythe and Florence is an absolute mouthful to say together. These poor people having to say our names all day.” He laughs and kisses her again to the delight of the assembled witches and wizards. Someone in the crowd sends up golden sparks which _pop_ and _bang_ above their heads, and in the front row, both Radella and Tallulah are crying. Lizzie holds Tallulah upright with an exasperated look upon her face, but when she catches Florence’s eye, she beams at her friend.

“What about Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe Blount?” he suggests when they pull away, his hand firm upon her back, steady as always. Florence smiles like a child on Christmas, giddy with a rare kind of happiness that she knows could lift her off the ground if she would let it.

“ _Marvelous_ ,” she replies.

“ _Wonderful_ ,” he agrees.

Their fingers lace together as they make their way back down the aisle, this time as one. Florence tosses her bouquet to a still sobbing Tallulah, pausing to press a kiss to her father’s cheek before allowing her husband – _husband_ she thinks with mild shock – to tug her down towards where a unicorn drawn carriage is waiting to take them to the reception.

The party passes in a whirl, a memory that feels both centuries long and faster than the blink of an eye when she looks back. There is a champagne tower in honor of Florence’s favorite beverage, and more than one hour spent spinning slightly off rhythm in Forsythe’s arms upon the dance floor. She nearly goes into full-on, hyperventilating shock when she realizes that Albion and Owen had managed to place a strong confundus charm on none other than Frank Sinatra, the blue-eyed, NoMaj crooner snapping and singing before the crowd, none the wiser to the obvious displays of magic happening before him.

“You’re going to get me and Forsythe sent to jail,” she says in horror, glancing between Albion and the NoMaj singer as her husband fans her. Albion smiles wickedly, the drink in his hand sloshing over just slightly.

“Dad and I cleared it with MACUSA, Florie,” he explains with obvious pride. “And he’s getting paid twice what he normally does for his troubles.”

Thus appeased, she allows Forsythe to drag her once more out onto the dance floor where his hands upon her body make her forget the anxiety of mere moments before, let alone the watching crowd and the endless extravaganza.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re off to when this is over?” Florence asks, laying her head on his chest as a slow song steals across the venue.

“Of course not,” he scoffs, smiling down at her even as he pulls her closer. Florence laughs, ignoring the cat-calls Owen and Radella were lobbying their way, retribution for their own wedding reception.

“I love you, you know?” Florence murmurs, her hand tightening around his for a moment as she feels another warm surge of champagne pass through her. Forsythe’s lips press to her temple, and she leans into the touch, the tent falling silent around them as they spin, two as one.

“I love you too,” he tells her easily, earnestly, and Florence closes her eyes, certain of him without having to see it written in his gaze. Another chill passes through her as the words settle with that place devoted solely to Forsythe within her chest. She’d never understood the wonder of hearing the words repeated towards her – Tom had never once given her that gift – but like so many other things, Forsythe gave those three words freely, a gift without expectation, a promise and a song and a magic only he could share with her. A magic she had chosen.

They spin, and Florence thinks only of the man in her arms, more content than she has ever had reason to be.

{{{}}}

Across the ocean, far on the other side of the Atlantic from the gay wedding-goers, Tom Riddle lies in wait deep in the forests of Albania, his cloak wrapped around him, his vision scarlet even in the early morning light. It is cold in the woods, but Tom can no longer feel warmth the way a normal human might – the way a _weaker_ human would – and he barely notices the mist that rises from each of his exhales. He’s been up all night, but like the cold, he no longer has need for sleep, the first wizard to truly utilize every hour of the day.

Just another thing that makes him remarkable.

Beneath him, just down the valley, is a small hut where smoke has started to emit from a stone chimney. For hours he debated just bursting down the door and killing the old hermit that lives inside, having the task over with, but he knows the man will have to come outside to collect wood and check his herd of goats, and somehow it felt _cleaner_ to have his quarry come to him.

In his pocket he runs a finger over the silver curve of the diadem, the expanse of unfurled eagle’s wings familiar to him even out of his sight. It had taken longer than intended to find the heirloom of Rowena Ravenclaw, but in the end he had mastered this too – like flight, like death. He smirks at nothing, pleased by his ability, the only thing he holds faith in these days.

Behind the diadem the back of his hand grazes a mirror, small and nondescript beyond the fact that it is magically connected to the painting within Florence’s house even now. His smirk fades at the contact with the small trinket, a reminder that Florence’s home is not even her home anymore, that somewhere far from here unremarkable _Florence Allman_ was marrying that pathetic excuse for a wizard Forsythe Blount.

If Tom could feel nausea anymore, he is certain that the thought would have made him sick.

He doesn’t watch the mirror anymore these days, not like he had when he was _weakened_ by Florence, but he cannot help it if the mirror is propped on his desk or some other inconsequential location when Florence happens into the sitting room where the portrait of Atalanta will give him a sight of her. Tom is not _seeking_ a glimpse of her, he is merely around when Florence comes into view upon the glass and nothing more.

And if he _happens_ to notice that her hair is longer, that she says fucking Forsythe Blount’s name with the same warmth she used to pronounce his, it’s not _his_ fault. Tom is certainly not liable for noting that she no longer visits the portrait as she once had – deep at night, shadows beneath her eyes – and he’s certainly not responsible for overhearing the date of her wedding, for locking away the time and day within the vault of his mind where he could not forget it.

Tom withdraws his hand from his pocket, returning his gaze to the steady stream of smoke exiting the Albanian hermit’s house. _Florence Allman_ was nothing without him, pathetic, diminished, worthless. If she could do no better than the menial farmer boy from the waste town of Spectre, well that was no concern of his.

Still, he feels a surge of anger within him that he has not felt for some time, and without thinking he pulls his wand and begins to twirl it through his fingers. He hates that he even thinks about her at all, but it seems that a few vestiges of his own weakness remained. _No matter, after today even that will be diminished._ At last, after nearly a fully night of waiting, the door to the hut opens and a man becomes visible. Tom watches him approach without moving, waiting until he is only a hundred meters away before lifting his wand, the curse already reverberating around in his mind.

 _To the bride and groom_ he thinks with gruesome relish, and then there is a flash of green light, and the farmer is no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are things getting better before they get worse?  
> Are things getting worse before they get better?
> 
> Up to you to decide!!! I'll be back with more in only a few days:) Stay safe you lovely people:):):):):):)


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings my good, Hotmen!! (any fellow Avatar fans out there? I've been dying to start my AN like that for MONTHS but I've tried to refrain, and here I am giving in to my baser instincts.)
> 
> Anyways, I'm sure many of you are wondering - what, Ads is posting ANOTHER chapter so soon? Shocking, truly I know, but I'm currently working on chapter 54 and I'm quite literally itching to get these chapters out and to share with you what all I have in store. 
> 
> I did just want to say this before you dive into this latest installment - I know many of you are like, Yeah, Forsythe is nice, but he's not Tom, to which I would like to say...Correct! If you have hated the most recent turn of events, that is 100% fair and fine and valid and I'm not upset with you AT ALL, I just want to point out that the tags haven't changed for a reason, and that it's looking like this story could be anywhere from 57-60 chapters, so there is still quite a bit of plot to go!! I feel like I'm being vague and annoying, but I just want you all to know everything I write I try and write with intention. Of course that doesn't mean anyone should have to like it and I appreciate your honestly more than I can express, all of that to say that this is Florence's story and that there is still SO much more to come!! Ages ago I asked you to hang in there with me cause this story would take some turns, and I'm begging for your patience now because at last we've hit! those! turns!
> 
> Ok, enough of my rambling. Here is another chapter, and then I'll go back to my author's cave and continue to hammer out some more words on my silly little keyboard. Grateful for each and every one of you!! Stay safe.

**Chapter 50**

"It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities."

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

It turns out that Forsythe had rented an ancient French Chateau in the southern wine country for their month long honeymoon. When they arrive upon the stone stoop, still dressed in their tuxedo and gown from the reception, June and Cash are there to greet them with yet another bottle of champagne and many high pitched well wishes. For possibly the first time in her life Florence considers rejecting the proffered coup glass, but one blinking stare from June has her accepting it with a gracious hug.

“It’s supposed to be haunted,” Forsythe admits when at last they have made their way into the master suite, his hands at once seeking the zipper at the back of her gown. “The Chateau I mean.”

“Is that why you chose it?” Florence says with a sleepy giggle, leaning back against Forsythe and making his job of undressing her decidedly harder.

“Maybe,” he admits, and Florence can hear his smile without looking at him. “But they also have their own vineyard. I thought you’d be interested in learning more about the growing process.”

“Mhmm,” Florence agrees, turning to help him undress after she is freed from her own cumbersome gown. Soon enough Forsythe’s garments join hers on the floor, the two of them falling in a tangle of limbs into the bed.

It is several hours later that Florence sits up in bed, waking from a dream, her heart racing at a terminal velocity as she fights to stabilize her breathing. At once, Forsythe is awake beside her, his palm running up and down her back as his other hand pulls her against his chest.

“Bad dream?” He asks, and Florence takes another deep breath before shaking her head _no_ against his chest. In the early rays of morning light, Forsythe’s eyes are the palest green, like buds of new grass coated in a layer of frost.

“No,” she says, pressing her lips to his neck for a moment. “I just realized I won’t have to Floo home in the morning anymore.” Forsythe kisses her in response, dragging her back down to the mattress before she can say another word.

.

.

.

Some parts of their lives fit together with such ease that most days Florence does not even feel like her life has changed at all. June and Cash move onto the Blount estate with her, and with Florence comes her own personal collection of Herbology and Mythology and Language texts that she uses to augment Forsythe’s upstairs library. _Our library_ as she’d taken to calling it whenever she mentioned it in conversation to Forsythe, and he would simply smile and nod his agreement.

He joins her without question in her morning coffee ritual out on the back porch, and they silently agree to avoid as many social functions as possible unless Florence was in the mood to dance and show off her husband to the local gossips. Much to Forsythe’s chagrin, this mood to show him off strikes Florence more than either of them had initial bargained for, but he doesn’t chastise her for it. As the years go by, she thinks he’s secretly pleased by her desire to tote him around, to dress him up in a tuxedo just so she can rip it off him when they get home.

Harder are the first years on the estate after their marriage, Florence adjusting to life upon a property where she had no expertise, no ties beyond those founded through marriage. Forsythe is gracious, allowing her to trail after him as he goes about his work on the property, but there are more than a handful of tense nights where she can see the pulse jumping in his temple as she pesters him with her hundredth question, challenging him on one of the finer details of the operation. She flounders in the fields working amongst shrubs, azalea being a non-medicinal plant throwing her for loop after loop.

“They need less fertilizer than Dittany,” Forsythe patiently explains when he observes several acres of shrubs with shriveling buds that Florence has mistreated. He does not chastise Florence, but she can see the tightness around his eyes as he looks out over the hurting plants, and everything within her threatens to shatter because she knows what it feels like to have another harm your land, and to be responsible for it is almost more than she can bear.

“If you’re going to sing to them, sing to their leaves not their roots,” he explains another day. “We have to be able to uproot them and sell them for aesthetic purposes just as often as we sell them for ingredients. Strong roots make them hard to remove” Florence nods in agreement, but she feels the cool trickling of failure down her spine at his words. _I should know this_ Florence thinks to herself later when Forsythe is not there to see. _I am the one that can sing to the plants_. Eventually after running through several ill-fitting positions on the property, Forsythe assigns her to the greenhouses.

“Just sing to them,” he says in a tired voice, pressing his lips to her forehead before releasing her to apparate away to the plots of azalea that are scheduled to be harvested that day. Florence smiles at him as he disappears, and then sets off by foot to the low, glass paneled buildings that are far off to her right along the horizon. There are fewer greenhouses upon the Blount estate than upon her family’s, but already she can feel the easing of her tension as she moves towards the familiar buildings.

The air inside is warm and moist, the scent of freshly tilled soil stronger here where the wind could not carry it away. Moving down the rows, her boots scuffing along the concrete floors with each step, Florence recalls without intention her first Herbology lesson at Hogwarts, how terrified she’d been about failing her other practical classes, how relieved she’d felt entering the greenhouses, to be face to face with something recognizable.

Forsythe finds her seated on a stool, hunched over a tray of seedlings long after the sun has begun to set, tears streaming down her face. His hands are soft as they cradle her head to his chest, and she can see the concern in his eyes, the worry that she will never find a place upon his family estate that makes her feel like she belongs.

“What happened?” He asks, and his voice is like a warm blanket, cloaking her shoulders like a mantle that only he can provide. Florence wraps an arm around his torso, using the other to point to the seed trays where after a moment blinking in the semi-dark, Forsythe notices for the first time the tiny green heads of young azalea seedlings poking above the soil. She hears his tiny exhale, and something that can only be understanding passes between their spirits – a warm, languid pulse between their beings.

“It’s just beautiful,” she whispers into his shirt, and then she laughs at her own foolishness and pulls him down for a kiss. Forsythe returns it eagerly, his lips hard upon hers despite having had years to grow accustomed to the feeling.

“You’re wonderful,” he says, and the word ignites again the same levity within Florence that it had all those years ago on a forgettable rooftop somewhere in London. He kisses her again, this time smiling against her mouth.

“Thank you for being patient with me,” she tells him, getting to her feet as they begin to make their way back across the fields of azalea towards their home. Around them fireflies flicker in and out of action as the sky becomes a dusky blue, the first stars winking into existence far overhead. Forsythe’s hand slides into her back pocket just as hers tangles in his shirt, their trek across the land rooted in amicable silence. She can feel the land singing around her – a different song from the one she’d been born upon, a new song that hums with the steadiness of the man beside her, the frenzy of her own emotion, magic that they had built together.

The years go by and with it they experience the usual highs and lows of life. Albion and Margaret welcome a second daughter, Owen and Radella a first son, and Tallulah meets and marries a the wealthy son of a Mexican corn farmer while on holiday in New York. The wedding celebrations last an entire month, finishing off with a three day reception in the heart of Mexico City before the newly wedded Mr. and Mrs. Martín Veracruz set off on a year-long trip around the globe. Forsythe swears off tequila after the wedding has concluded, and he refuses to attend any party with Florence for nearly six months, claiming that he’s paid his debt to society more than enough after dealing with Tallulah’s ridiculous ceremonies.

Forsythe’s father passes away unexpectedly in his sleep, and he locks himself in his study for three days and three nights before he finally allows Florence in to hold him as he cries. They sleep on the carpet that night, and sometime after midnight Florence wakes to find Forsythe pressing his face into her stomach as he sobs. She cradles his head in her hands and summons the blanket from their bed and lets him cry until he is empty, and in the morning she summons the elves to bring them breakfast on the floor, feeding Forsythe tiny bites of egg and bacon until he has enough energy to eat himself.

Forsythe gets his chance to hold Florence through grave news when the Mediwitch that visits them every six months relays the news that Florence will never bear children, that she’d in fact never been fertile at any point in her life. The news leaves her despondent for weeks, unable to get out of bed even to bathe, unable to escape the expression on Forsythe’s face of undeniable pain that had flashed across his features before he’d schooled his façade. He carries her to the bath with him every night, and every morning he levitates her down the stairs to join him for coffee on the back porch until one day she takes his hands in hers and pulls him to bed with her and reminds him what they have together when working at two parts of a functioning whole, the magic that makes them stronger.

Philip meets a quiet painter from Wisconsin named John who specializes in moving portraits, and several years later Florence and Forsythe find an invitation to a small wedding ceremony for the two of them waiting for them at breakfast. Lizzie is conspicuously absent, but Philip beams at her from the front of the room and Florence does not dwell upon it. Lizzie is conspicuously absent from her own life when she begins to think about it upon their return to Georgia. The letters slow, the visits stop, and eventually even the holidays come and go without so much a as a Yule card. It doesn’t surprise Florence – she can read about the civil unrest in England in the _Wizarding Times_ if she so chooses – and somewhere in the recesses of her mind she knows that Elizabeth Avery’s silence was a form of protection, saving her from questions Florence would rather not have answered.

Yet as the years pass, neither Forsythe nor Florence is privy to the rumors that begin to swirl around Spectre on their behalf. It begins with stray comments – _such good genes – not a day over twenty they seem –_ but as years stretch on into decades, some of the older, more questioning members of Spectre society begin to wonder if there are other factors at play. _You remember that Allman grandmother, lived well past her years_ and other thoughts like _it’s unnatural to look as young as they do at their age, I hope it’s only vanity and not something more._ Even Albion and Owen mention it one night over a decanter of Firewhiskey, but neither has an answer beyond Owen’s comment that Florence was deeper into native magic than any of them had ever been.

Florence thinks only that Forsythe is beautiful, that his mouth moving against hers is the best kept promise, and if times seems to affect them differently, it is simply because they are immersed in magic of a different kind. Forsythe doesn’t question it at all, but he’s never questioned any feeling when it came to Florence.

.

.

.

The sun is beginning its downward decline far above when Florence returns to the house, stepping out of her mud coated boots and leaving them by the back door before stepping into the house. She pops her head into the kitchen, patting both June and Cash on the head before pouring herself a glass of lemonade and exiting the bustling room once more. Forsythe had informed her that he’d purchased show tickets for the two of them that night, and she was under the strictest order to be dressed and ready to go at five o’clock sharp. Florence smiles into the sweet, yellow drink as she recalls the ways he’d used his fingers and tongue to convince her to leave work early today in order to get ready in time. In the end it had not taken much convincing.

She rounds the corner toward the main stairwell when her eyes land upon a solitary figure standing just inside the door, the long, violently purple wizards robes clashing offensively with the dark oriental carpet. Florence screeches to a halt, nearly spitting her lemonade back into her glass when the undeniably familiar set of piercing blue eyes latch onto her own umber, a smile spreading across the notably more lined face.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Florence splutters, unable to think of anything more welcoming to say, her eyes still absorbing the sight of her now silver-haired professor standing in her foyer.

“Mrs. Blount,” he says with a weathered smile, inclining his head in her direction. “My apologies for the sudden intrusion, but I was in the area and thought I might drop in.”

“It’s not an intrusion,” Florence rushes to say, remembering her manners as she steps closer. “I’m just surprised to see you after all this time, but not displeased. Can I get you something to eat? I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

“No not long, as I said I decided to pop by on a whim,” Dumbledore said, following after her as she sets off back down the hallway by which she’d come. Florence glances over her shoulder, reveling at the sight of the long-bearded professor admiring the paintings upon the wall, the woven tapestries and velvet curtains that lined the windows.

“What are you doing in Georgia?” She asks, motioning him into the main library where Dumbledore sinks into a large, tufted chair with golden tassels. She calls softly for Cash under her breath, the small elf appearing almost at once, a wooden spoon still clasped in his hand. “Cash, this is Professor Dumbledore – Professor, Cash,” Florence introduces. To her surprise, the aged wizard shakes the elf’s hand. “Cash can bring you anything you’d like to eat or drink.”

“A cup of tea with a splash of brandy would be lovely, thank you, Cash.”

The house elf disappears with a smile and a _crack_ , and then Florence seats herself across from her old teacher, feeling as small as she had during their lessons, the familiar crackle of his magic still humming in the air despite his age. It had been many years since she’d been in the presence of someone who’s magic was so undeniably powerful, and the reminder makes her throat tighten.

“I have been traveling to visit old collogues across the globe, and was visiting one in Atlanta when I recalled that you resided not far from the city,” Dumbledore offers as an explanation. “I do appreciate you taking a moment to sit with me, as I get older I find that spending time with familiar faces is my most preferred method of wasting the days away.”

Florence smiles and meanders through various stories, telling Dumbledore about the estate’s growth under Forsythe’s management, about the difficulties her brothers had been facing with opposition in the trans-Atlantic shipping industry, and answering any other question her professor deems fit to ask. Dumbledore’s eyes give her the long forgotten, but now undeniably familiar sensation of being x-rayed as she speaks, as if he looks for hidden messages beneath all of her words. For his part, Dumbledore tells her succinctly that he is still teaching at Hogwarts, although he’d been appointed Headmaster against his own better judgement.

“I’m sure they could have found someone more fitting,” he sighs through a smile, and Florence holds her own glass of wine aloft in response.

“Well, if I may offer my late congratulations, I’d like too.” Dumbledore beams at her, again bowing his head in her direction in acceptance of her praise.

“Forgive me for asking,” he says after taking a sip of his now lukewarm-at-best tea. “But as I recall, you were at one time good friends with Miss Elizabeth Greengrass, now named Mrs. Elizabeth Avery. Do the two of you two still correspond?” Florence feels her stomach tighten, but she smiles through the sensation.

“Lizzie and I have lost touch over the years. An ocean will do that to a friendship I suppose,” Florence says. Her fingers press into the sides of her glass without thinking.

“It is a natural course of events,” Dumbledore agrees, bridging the tips of his fingers together in a pose that makes Florence feel like she is about to be transported back to class. She swallows. “And it is also the natural order of things to fall out of communication when circumstances deem them unsafe. I’m sure you’ve read all about our civil unrest in your papers, Mrs. Blount.”

“Florence please,” she says with a thin lipped smile. She has an itching, crawling sensation at the base of her spine that she knows where this conversation is going, and while she won’t run from it, she doesn’t want Forsythe’s name – the name they have built together – brought into the conversation.

“Florence,” he corrects himself. “You have seen the papers?”

“Yes, I’ve seen them,” she whispers quietly. She knows now, before he opens his mouth to speak next, that this was no chance meeting, no circumstance of fate that he was seated before her within her own home. She feels another ripple of unease pass through her, and her hands ache for Forsythe, for his steadiness in all situations.

“Florence, I would like to ask you questions regarding your one time relationship with Tom Riddle,” Dumbledore says after a moment, and although his voice is still pleasant, his eyes have lost some of their gleam. “I understand that this may be painful, and in some cases considered outright rude, but I believe that there is a possibility that you possess information that could save hundreds, if not thousands or millions of lives in the long run.”

“It’s alright,” Florence responds after a breath. She remembers telling him about her native magic, how _easy_ to confide in he’d been when everyone else thought that her magic was strange and alien. The same sense of ease sweeps through her now, and with a silent flick of her wand the door to the library swings closed, and with another, a fire springs up in the hearth. “You can ask me whatever you’d like. I’ll endeavor to answer to the best of my knowledge.”

“May I ask you when you and Tom severed your relationship?”

“1948,” Florence says without hesitation, and then she blushes, horrified that even now, decades later, she can remember the precise year. “Sometime around March or April.”

“Were the circumstances of the severing…amicable?”

Florence laughs, but it doesn’t reach her eyes and she takes a long sip of wine before speaking. A door within her mind swings open with the sensation of a cold draught of air sliding down her neck and curdling within her chest.

“No, they weren’t,” she says with another sigh, a dry grimace. “He came to my family estate after nine months abroad traveling for Borgin. I suppose he went straight to speak with my Dad and ask for my hand in marriage, but my father denied him,” Florence explains dryly, as if rattling off a list of ingredients and nothing more. “Tom was enraged, and he came to my home next, to ask me to run away with him – elope without my family’s blessing – but I’d already received word from my father by the time Tom reached me, and I also said no. In a fit he burned several mature acres of my land to the ground,” Florence explains, and closing her eyes she can feel a phantom of heat pass across her face as she recalls the wall of blue fire that had destroyed her trees. “That was the last time I saw or heard from him.”

Opening her eyes once more, she sees a distinct twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes, but then he blinks and it is gone, his fingertips tapping against each other as he digests her words. Florence waits in silence, knowing that the questioning was far from over, weighing how much more to say.

“Upon what grounds did your father reject Mr. Riddle?” Dumbledore asks, and from the gravel in his tone, Florence knows that Dumbledore already has several theories that he’s looking to her to confirm. The swinging door opens wider in her mind, and from deep within the folds of her memory, a high, cold laugh echoes. She shivers, and then grits her teeth.

“Clifford had been aware for some years that Tom had removed bits of his soul, fracturing it by murdering people and then imbedding those fragments in inanimate objects,” Florence says, and each word that passes her lips becomes lighter, as if voicing the secret she’d carried all these years was releasing her from some long-held, self-inflicted curse. “He’d offered Tom an ultimatum – he would consent to our marriage if he never again attempted to split his soul in pursuit of immortality. It was kindness on my behalf, but Tom ignored this in the end.” Florence sets her glass of wine on the carpet, wrapping her arms around her torso and hunching forward slightly, her eyes squeezed tight. She can feel her pulse in her ears, the slippery whispering of a velvet voice asking her if she could live with herself – nightmares that had not troubled her for years flashing before her eyes once more.

“I think,” she says, and her words crack as she tries to continue, shattering upon the upwelling of grief that stems from nowhere. “I think he’d killed someone just earlier that day when he asked me to marry him.”

Florence opens her eyes to see that Dumbledore is on his feet, a white handkerchief with lace trimmings extended out towards her. She takes it without question, dabbing at the corners of her eyes before reaching for her glass of wine and draining it in one gulp. His face hovers in the fringes of her memory, beautiful even now, midnight eyes flickering to red. She has not thought about him in so long, and she doesn’t know if she’s horrified by the thundering in her heart, or resigned to the fact that even now, the mention of just his name seems to move her in some way that is inexplicable beyond understanding that it is magic.

“Florence,” Dumbledore says after he has regained his seat. “Tom Riddle was many things – many of them good – but considerate was not one. Leaving you with the burden of this knowledge is perhaps the greatest unkindness he ever paid you.” Florence nods, catching her breath before speaking again.

“My father sent me a letter explaining what he knew, and when Tom came to ask for my hand, I confronted him about it,” Florence continues after her tears have dried. Confronted she knows is a strong word – she’d been bullied into having a conversation she’d avoided for nearly four years of their relationship, but in the end they had spoken. “He told me her life was inconsequential in the end – I guess he was talking about whatever woman he’d killed that day – and he told me he’d killed his father and Myrtle Warren. And then he told me he would live forever and that I would become nothing.”

“I think we can both safely attest that whatever else has elapsed after the termination of your relationship, you have not become nothing, Florence,” Dumbledore says kindly, peering at her over half-moon spectacles. “Did your father ever explain to you how he knew of Tom’s choice to split his soul.”

Florence nods.

“He could sense it with my great-grandmother’s magic, in the same way I can sense the spirit in the fire right there or the air around us. I was never able to notice it because… well…” Florence blushes, recalling her conversation with Illini regarding Tom. “I don’t know if this is a definitive source, but Illini this old Piasa that lives on the Allman estate told me that Tom was unconsciously using the love and attention he gained from me to fill the emptiness inside of him. To me, he would have never felt unwhole because to me he wasn’t unwhole.”

Dumbledore’s piercing stare becomes soft, and with a flick of his finger Florence’s wine glass refills itself. She smiles despite the tremors that wrack her body.

“Love is, in my humble opinion, the greatest and yet strangest magic of all, Florence,” Dumbledore murmurs. “It is a failing of Tom’s – not yours – to never understand this. He believes it to be a weakness, but as you have just made clear to me, it was Love that saved Tom from madness for many years.”

“I didn’t save Tom,” Florence says, her voice somewhat subdued.

“No, perhaps not in the end,” Dumbledore agrees. “But I think you gave him a glimpse of what might have been possible, had he chosen love as a child, had he ever received any before splitting his soul apart. I think the agony of what he lost eats at him daily and he does not even understand why.”

Florence snorts at this, but she considers again Lizzie’s silence. Maybe, somewhere across the ocean, she truly was protecting her – providing distance between Florence and Pyrrhus’ master. Maybe somewhere in England, Tom’s choices did truly eat away at him, but if they did, they were no longer a concern of Florence. With a smile to no one in particular, her gaze falls upon a framed photo of herself and Forsythe upon the mantle, and a semblance of peace falls within her.

“Do you have any other questions, Professor?”

“Only a few,” he admits with a thin smile. “Did your father ever explain to you why he did not go to the authorities?”

“He said that native magic wouldn’t hold up in a court of law – it is not a nationally recognized form of magic because each of the Native Tribes of America had their own customs and practices, and therefore his testimony would be insufficient evidence.”

“And you had no other evidence?”

“I had a ring once,” Florence admits, recalling the stone that once weighed upon her finger like a shard of ice. “I didn’t understand at the time – I think it held a piece of his soul – but I gave it back to him when we parted.”

“Unfortunate, but understandable,” Dumbledore murmurs, nodding his head. Florence wracks her brain for anything else that could be used as evidence of Tom Riddle’s crimes. Memories could be altered, and therefore his admittance to the murders of Myrtle Warren and his father in her own mind was worthless. Her father’s magic was inconclusive, there was mention of a ring that had no physical evidence of, and the word of a Piasa – a magical creature of lore whose testimony, like memory or native magic, would not hold up in court.

“My last request is of a more personal nature,” Dumbledore says, and Florence feels her eyes widen. _More personal than what has already been said?_ “As I’m sure you understand, while I believe your word on good faith, it is of the utmost importance that I collect evidence of Tom Riddle’s quest for immortality. Having definitive answers in regards to Tom’s actions as a young man, can, I believe, save the wizarding world from great harm – now, or in the future. I have set myself on a long and arduous course of tracking down any and everyone who may have any relation to Tom in order to piece together what has happened to the young man we once knew.”

“I don’t have any hard evidence, Professor, I’m sorry,” Florence says with a small frown. “I even burned the letter my father sent me that afternoon. I tried to erase him.”

“It is to be expected, Florence. However, you would do me a great service by providing me with the memory of your last conversation, and any other memories you may wish to include.”

“What if I can’t remember all of the words?”

“Memory is a fickle friend, but I often find that once removed from the mind, more details have been preserved that originally thought,” Dumbledore says evasively. Florence considers his request, a strange fear settling on her shoulders.

“Will you be able to hear my thoughts – in the memories?” She asks, unbothered by the petulance in the question. Dumbledore smiles, as if he knows the truth of her words. _Will you know I loved him? Will you know I wished to accept him despite what he was?_

“No, my dear. Your thoughts, now and forever, will remain your own.”

With this assertion, Florence agrees to allow the memories to be pulled from her mind. She gives him the memory of their breaking first, beginning with Florence receiving her dad’s letter and ending with her final sight of Tom vanishing in a whirl of smoke from her property. The tip of Dumbledore’s wand is cold against her temple, and the silver thread pulls slowly as if the memory is stiff and disjointed from lack of use, but at last it is finished and stored within a small glass vial Dumbledore conjured from thin air.

Florence thinks long and hard about the other memory she might give to Dumbledore. So many place her in a physically compromising situation, and so many others seem trivial – except to her. She cannot explain why she feels defensive of the memories, why she wants to protect the man Tom had been from Dumbledore’s prying eyes, but without question she does – like a vulture hatching that would one day grow into something grotesque, her recollections of a young Tom seemed innocent, far removed from what he had become.

In the end, she settles upon the night she woke up in the hospital wing after receiving news of her father’s disappearance. The memory glides from her skull bit by bit, the fluttering of her vision as she awakes to see him sleeping in the chair beside her, his hand closing around hers, his unflappability in the face of her agony, _I will destroy anyone that hurts you, Florence_. She cuts off the thread of remembrance as she falls back asleep in her memory, Tom’s narrow form curled around her upon the hospital bed.

The second memory leaves Florence nauseous and sweating, incapable of drawing in sufficient oxygen. _I will destroy anyone that hurts you_ he’d told her– but he’d been the one to hurt her, and the long forgotten welling of self-loathing pulses within her for letting herself be hurt. For at one time giving her heart to someone who was incapable of cherishing it, for thinking he could have ever understood. _Perhaps he will destroy himself_ she thinks, a vindictive surge passing through her that fades at last into exhaustion. Florence presses the cold glass of wine to her temple, wishing not for the first time since Dumbledore arrived for Forsythe.

“You have done the wizarding word a great service, Florence,” Dumbledore says after finishing off the last of his tea. “Thank you.”

“And he’s the one causing all of this unrest?” Florence asks, getting to her feet. Her legs feel shaky, and she grimaces slightly at the fluttering in her pulse.

“Tom goes by a new name now, but to those of us who have kept an eye on him since a young age, we know that the two identities are one,” Dumbledore confirms, standing and following Florence down the hall.

“Lord Voldemort,” she whispers. “Can you stop him? You stopped Grindelwald all those years ago.”

“The fight between Gellert and I was not, forgive me, so similar to this circumstance as you may believe,” Dumbledore says, and Florence peers at his lined face as they step out onto the front porch, scrutinizing the change in his voice.

“You and Grindelwald were like me and Tom – weren’t you,” she says at last, comprehension dawning over her. She recalls their conversations from years ago, how Dumbledore had suggested they may have more in common, in the end.

“Involved?”

“Infatuated, enamored, obsessive to the point of blindness,” she counters. Dumbledore’s face is passive, but there is a flash somewhere in the depths of his pale blue eyes, and she knows she is correct. The realization does nothing to lift her mood, instead pity stirring somewhere in her navel for the old man before her.

“I did fear that you would be subjected to a similar fate as my own,” Dumbledore says, his hands slipping deep in his pockets. “But it seems you have made more of yourself that I ever did. It is our choices, after all, Mrs. Blount.” Dumbledore lifts one hand and gestures to the home, as if congratulating her on the life she had built. Florence feels the first genuine smile since the topic of Tom had been broached spread across her face because _yes, I built something from the ashes._

“I’m sorry you can’t stay to meet Forsythe,” Florence says, but she isn’t truly. Already her chest feels warm thinking of the moment he will return home, of the embrace he will give her, of the way his pale green eyes will gleam with wonder as she comes down the stairs even though he’s seen her a thousand times.

“As am I – he seems to be a fine gentleman,” Dumbledore says with a deep bow and another smile.

“He’s marvelous.”

They say their farewells, and Florence watches as the somewhat stooped old wizard begins to make his way down the front stairs and up the long drive towards the apparition point just outside the property wards. His purple robes and hat seem to meld into the azaleas that line the drive, and quiet without thinking, Florence finds herself calling out after him.

“Professor!” She shouts, and Dumbledore turns, x-raying her once more through half-moon spectacles.

“Yes, Mrs. Blount?”

“Did you ever-” she blushes, aware that her question is wildly invasive, but throwing caution to the wind in favor of the more blunt truth she was seeking. “Did you ever feel like a monster yourself? For loving someone like that?”

Dumbledore surveys her for a moment before his gaze turns to trace the horizon. He is too far away for Florence to glean any information from his expression, so she waits, wondering if he will deem to answer her query.

“Perhaps for a time,” he admits after several long moments have passed. “But with time and age, I learned that the only monstrous thing had been loving without hope of being loved in return. There are so many people worth loving in this world, Mrs. Blount, and I think you can agree that it works best on a two way street.”

Florence feels herself break into an enormous smile, and with a final wave, she turns and re-enters her home, thoughts of Tom nothing more than a passing shadow already nestled once more at the back of her mind – perhaps not gone, but no longer driving her mad.

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“You know, it’s unfair to all the other men here,” Florence murmurs under her breath as Forsythe helps slide off her fur coat and passes it to the door check – a large, burly wizard with a red velvet eyepatch. They were behind schedule, having been distracted by each other’s appearance in the foyer of their own home, and were now arriving only a few minutes before the show was set to begin, perhaps slightly more flushed that was publicly acceptable. Florence shivers slightly as her arms and back are exposed to the cool air, soothed only by the return of Forsythe’s arm to her waist as he guides her into the main lobby.

“What’s unfair?” He asks with his signature, easy smile spread across his face. Florence notices that the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes are slightly deeper – the only sign that her husband has aged at all. Sometimes she wonders if the two of them are swimming through amber while everyone else flies through air, but she doesn’t let the thought over worry her. In the end, she is the one who reaps the benefits of whatever magic holds them.

“That you look like _that_ in a tuxedo, and everyone else has to look as painfully average as they do.”

“I could take it off?” Forsythe suggests, leaning down slightly so that his breath will warm the side of her face just enough to make her blush. Florence’s places a hand over the one curled around her waist and squeezes.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” she says with faux importance. “That is my job.”

Forsythe laughs, but doesn’t stop moving as he hands their tickets to the doorman. The NoMaj clicks on his funny little flashlight and leads them up the carpeted steps and around the corner into a private balcony where a bottle of red wine waits for them. Forsythe helps Florence into her seat before taking the one beside her, at once lifting the armrest between them so that he can pull her flush against his frame. Florence’s eyes flicker closed for the briefest moment as the floral scent of azalea washes over her, the subtler hint of honey trailing afterwards that informs her that he’d spent the afternoon in their fields. She smiles, resting a hand on his thigh, sinking into his warmth without a thought.

“What production are we watching?” She asks, accepting the glass of wine he hands her.

“Some ballet,” he whispers, fishing in his pocket for the tickets. “The Nutcracker? No, Swan Lake,” he corrects, reading off the tiny slip of paper before jamming it back into his jacket.

“This is a long one,” Florence muses, letting her thumb move across his leg.

“We can leave whenever you’d like,” Forsythe agrees, his free arm draping around her shoulders. The hall grows dark only seconds later, and with the electrical whirling of NoMaj machinery, the lights flicker on and the curtains open.

They watch as several figures prance out onto the stage, every muscle in their legs defined and traceable within their tights, movements fluid and graceful. The music wafts upward from the orchestra pit, a familiar tune that Florence plays often when reading in the upstairs library, but tonight it brings no solace. An itching sensation stirs within her as the dancers progress, and every few seconds it seems she has the urge to adjust her position, unable to find comfort. Forsythe is unmovable in the face of her restlessness, a careless hand running up and down the exposed expanse of her arm with all the steadiness of a river.

“Forsythe,” Florence says at last, setting down her untouched glass of wine and turning to face him. Her hand sinks into his thigh, and blinking slightly, she flushes at the expression etched onto his gentle features.

“Yes, Florence?” He murmurs, and his voice is like the first few lines of a childhood story, the opening note to her favorite symphony – a promise and an answer and more moving than anything happening below her on the stage. She pulls him down for a kiss, uncaring that they might be a bit too old for this – even if they don’t look it – certain only that he is more than whatever she could dream of gleaning from the production behind her. Forsythe’s lips are soft against hers, his stubble a comfortable scratch upon her cheeks, and his tongue probing but gentle in a dance they have mastered through the years.

“Can we go home? I don’t want to be here – around others I mean,” she whispers, suddenly flustered by his hand on her back, his taste in her mouth. He doesn’t ask why, nor does he tell her that the tickets were expensive and the wine specifically selected. Instead, in one fluid motion he lifts her from the seat, interlacing her hand in his much larger, and heading back out the way they came. In mere moments they have collected their coats, stepped into the Floo, and disappeared in a rush of green flames.

“Thank you for the tickets,” Florence whispers against Forsythe’s lips as they stumble out of the fireplace, their hands already intent upon the task of divesting one another of their clothes. She can feel him smiling, even in the dark, and the thought makes something hot and soothing ooze within her chest.

“This is a better idea anyways,” he chuckles, and her gown falls to the floor, Forsythe’s jacket and pants soon after it.

They leave a trail of garments and accessories through the house, laughing like misbehaving teenagers when they hit the carpet at the top of the stairs, unable to make it even another hundred feet to their bedroom.

“Thank god your family doesn’t live here anymore,” Florence pants as their bodies become one, one hand smoothing down the ripples of Forsythe’s back. He laughs into her neck, moving with a steady pace that leaves her breathless, her mind hovering in a hazy state of bliss.

“Mhmm, love you,” is all he murmurs in response, and everything within Florence shatters.

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rubs hands nervously together for warmth*
> 
> So yeah, lots of time skipping in this chapter cause i needed things to move faster. Also, I reworked the Dumbledore conversation so many times and I'm still grumbly about it. It was really important to me that she share what she knew because the knowledge put a lot of people at risk, but as you guys can tell I've tried to stay pretty cannon compliant so far, so that was a funky thing to balance. And, even though I find Dumbledore questionable in the OG series, I think he and Florence have an interesting parallel that made this conversation worth/important to have. 
> 
> seriously in the words of Harry Styles, I'd walk through fire for you, my dear readers!!!!
> 
> edit: are you KIDDING ME PEOPLE!!!!!! over 9000 views???????? I AM SPEECHLESS WITH GRATITUDE SENDING SO MANY AIR HUGS!!!!


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ!!!!!!
> 
> Ok people - i'm going buck wild. That's right, I'm going to post TWO WHOLE CHAPTERS today!!!!! Mostly because there are so many cats in my metaphorical writing bag that I want to let OUT of the bag, and because I feel like I've been dancing on coals for the past few chapters completely unable to explain myself and the writing decisions I've made and frankly annoying all of you with my endless ramblings. 
> 
> I've genuinely agonized over chapters 51 and 52, so I'd love to know your thoughts on both...BUT i completely understand if you rush from one chapter to the next and then let me have a piece of your mind at the end of the second update today. Hopefully I'll have them up within 30 minutes of each other. 
> 
> All of this to say, PLEASE READ THIS CHAPTER BEFORE CHAPTER 52 IF FOR SOME REASON YOU ONLY GET ONE NOTIFICATION UPDATE!!!!A lot of stuff won't make sense, and you my dear readers deserve more than confusion if you've been hanging on this long with me. 
> 
> I ADORE YOU PEOPLE HAPPY READING XOXOXOXO

**Chapter 51**

“Don’t you want to be alive before you die?”   
― Anthony Doerr, All the Light We Cannot See

Tom Riddle forgets about Florence Allman in eight parts, fragments of soul and memory that fade into the ether as the years pass, never knowing nor understanding why they had been ripped apart in the first place.

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The first to go was also the largest, imbedded in a diary, the words and writings of a young man who was determined to make a name for himself in the future based upon a name from the past. Diary Riddle has nearly ten months of writings from the other half of himself, neat lines and carefully crafted phrases about a woman who’s hair shone like spun caramel and who’s voice was the breeze and who’s very being sang with magic more alive than anything either half of his soul had ever seen.

Seventh year, Head Boy Tom Riddle had been nothing if not meticulous, near daily writing of his occurrences, of those things Florence Allman had said to him, of the way the scent of coffee lingered in his room long after she was gone, how the way she said his name sent strange aches throughout his body that surely must have meant that there was magic linking them together. Diary Riddle drinks in the ink, feasting over the intervening years of silence on the descriptions of Samhain, over the Latin phrases of magic that this girl – Florence Allman – had written for his other half, imagining a dress made of stars and a home with eternal summer and a woman that could somehow distract the future Lord Voldemort with nothing more than a smile, a few well-placed gifts.

The Diary Riddle wonders where she is during the years he sits unattended upon Lucius Malfoy’s shelf, if this Florence Allman had indeed married the bit of his own soul that lived outside the confines of this book, if the other Riddle had killed her the way he had killed his own Father. It cannot picture her, having never beheld her face before separating from his human body, but Diary Riddle has enough descriptions to fill a novel, every detail of her being from how she takes her coffee to the names of the books she reads for fun. He feels strangely as though he knows her, even though he doesn’t. Envious of the other portions of his soul for experiencing in flesh what he’d only received in writing, for things he could never know.

When he is given over to the possession of the young Ginevra Weasley, Diary Riddle most control himself after decades of his own listless ramblings, stop himself from asking whether there was another – a woman – who had stood beside the dark lord that the young Ginny fears to name. Diary Riddle despises her, convinced after years of solitude that even eleven year old Florence Allman would have been more interesting than this girl despite having never known her.

He possesses her body, taking her one night to the library where he searches the records for mentions of one Florence Allman. There is nothing in the papers, no mention in any book about a fearsome woman who had been a part of the revolution, and with something akin to anger, he convinces himself that she must have been killed. Grief passes through him then, or as close to grief as possible without a body to feel it by, something like an abyss in his mind where years of musings and memories amount to nothing.

When a basilisk fang is driven through the heart of his pages, Diary Riddle wonders briefly if his mangled soul will at last meet Florence Allman in death – in that void he’d so feared, but where surely she would be waiting for him? Diary Riddle bleeds ink onto the Chamber floor, and he resigns himself to waiting for her, to at last know the woman he’d been fed with memories of, and then he knows no more.

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The quarter of Tom’s soul that resides in a ring is the second to forget. The Ring Riddle remembers only the beating of Florence Allman’s pulse, the warmth she’d provided against the unbearable cold of its existence. It had spent the better part of four years pressed against her, wound around her finger, and as a result, it knew everything that make her heart beat faster – the touch of human Riddle’s hand, the steep incline of stairs, the fluttering when someone told her she was beautiful.

Ring Riddle knows her pulse in sleep – metronomic – and her pulse in fear – schizophrenic – and it remembers the terrible moment it was ripped away from Florence’s pulse all together – never to be returned.

The part of Tom Riddle’s soul that lived in his ring spends the years of darkness craving the touch of the person who had worn it longest. It wonders why what was left of himself had hidden it away instead of wearing it as an emblem of strength as it’d been intended to be. Ring Riddle wonders if something else adorns the hands of Florence Allman who’s hands were warmer than fire, the rhythm of her heart his only measuring of time.

Ring Riddle is longing – to the best of his albeit limited ability – for warmth once more when another hand slides it on. There is a brief moment in which the quarter of Tom Riddle’s soul that has sat alone, buried under the Gaunt house for many years, rejoices at being found, but then the hand is too broad, the skin too weathered, and in a rage the curse that sings in its metal seeps out and attacks his new wearer whose only crime was that he was not Florence Allman.

The bit of Riddle in the ring dies with a sword through it moments later, its last seconds spent recalling only how a young woman had once found herself unworthy of wearing it, how the touch of her skin was the closest the ring had ever felt to being alive.

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The bit of Tom Riddle incased in a locket recalls Florence Allman only in that it knows it was created for her. Only an eighth of his soul, what little brain capacity Locket Riddle possesses fixates upon the face and neck it was meant to highlight, upon his past self’s recollections of her beauty, of the magic that supposedly hummed in the very fibers of her being. It recalls the sentiments that were sang into its very creation, how his past body had nearly torn itself apart in longing for her, and it wonders what powers she holds that drove him to the brink of madness, if it will ever have the opportunity to understand.

Locket Riddle is only longing, sitting at the base of a potion deep within a cave, incapable of remembering its existence except that it was meant for Florence Allman, that somehow she was meant for him, that surely they were meant for each other?

Decades pass and then there are hands, some human, others not – some gentle, others pressing into him with the intent to maim. One woman wears it, but Locket Riddle is repulsed by the touch of skin that does not sing, that does not stir his magic to the tallest heights, even if she does believe in his message of blood supremacy.

Three children wear him too – one boy who dreams of greatness, another who despises his own, and a girl who does not think about greatness at all. The girl he hates most of all, young and beautiful and decidedly _not_ Florence Allman, and Locket Riddle longs for her all the more.

When a sword shatters it in two, Locket Riddle explodes outward in one final gasp of magic, curious if perhaps his magic is great enough she will sense it. Whether or not Florence Allman does, the locket never knows, blackness taking even its memories.

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The cup sits upon a shelf in a gloomy, mirthless vault hating Florence Allman. One sixteenth of his soul now, the Riddle of the Cup knows only that it was made in spite of _her_ – meant to be a treasure to replace the one lost. Cup Riddle collects dust in the Lestrange chamber, aware that its existence could never replace the warmth lost, the devotion freely given, the softness of knowing hands against his old human form, and it hates the girl all the more.

Cup Riddle dies in a different Chamber, and it is a relief not to hate anymore, to be spared the knowledge that its very reality was insufficient from the start.

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The bit of Tom Riddle that lives in the Diadem spends its life questioning. It knows because its body had known what became of Florence Allman – that she chose differently, in the end. Diadem Riddle is stored in the room of lost things in the castle where once Tom Riddle had met Florence Allman, and it questions what it was all for and if it was worth it, how it could have ended up here and she across the ocean? The Diadem bit of Tom Riddle had remained attached enough to its original host long enough to know that years of scouring the globe had brought him no closer to answering any of the questions Florence Allman had unearthed within him, and now reduced to a thirty-second of himself, it is no longer capable of answering anything.

Diadem Riddle spends years posing query after query, unable to voice an answer, to form an original thought. Meant originally for intelligence, the Diadem wonders what intellect Florence Allman had held that led them apart, and if her choice had rendered her split, portioned off like baking scraps like it had left him?

The portion of Tom Riddle ensconced in the Diadem dies in flames, and it recalls in the moment before it ceases to exist the thought of a young boy to win a prize with fire, and of the blue wings of a flaming dragon spanning across the horizon.

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The bit of soul intertwined with that of Nagini knows only this: it was meant to bring long life not to a snake, but to a woman. Perhaps eternity for the girl who had shaped Tom Riddle from the moment she had laid eyes upon him, and who had left him half-formed and insane.

 _I will carve your name into time itself_ half-Riddle, half-Nagini remembers, and it loathes that it did not succeed in its purpose, that this is all it can remember in the end because it has no hands to carve and no capacity to notice the passing years.

Half-Riddle, Half-Nagini has its head cut off with a sword, and it wonders if its own name will live on through time, like that of some Greek God Florence Allman had cared for, or if it is destined for nothingness.

It never has an answer.

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The fraction of Tom Riddle that was never meant to be, that lives inside a young boy, knows only that whatever magic Florence Allman possessed that made him feel like he was drowning and flying and burning all at once exists in spades within the boy’s body. Fragment Riddle burns for seventeen years before he is set free, killed by his own hand, and he never discovers what force it could be that ate at him all those years.

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.

The final part of Tom Riddle, the shard of his soul that was never stored in any object, hardly thinks about Florence Allman at all because it is incapable. Somewhere along the way it becomes aware that it has passed beyond what it means to exist. His new body, the one known solely as Lord Voldemort, cannot eat or smell, and he hardly even has reason to feel. There is no difference between night and day, summer or winter, only the endless expanse of time stretching on, out past the horizon.

Lord Voldemort does not think of Florence Allman the way he once had, his mind having only the capacity for those dreams he’d traded living for. He thinks of power, of amassing it, of his name arranged in the stars where people will cower beneath it. He thinks of eradicating the impurities in the human race beginning with Mudbloods and muggles even though nowadays, every person regardless of their status or purity was no more than a bug waiting to be crushed beneath his feet. Greatness, it seemed, was the great equalizer insomuch that it equalized everyone else in their lack thereof. These thoughts fill him as much as is possible, and the rest of the void remains empty – Lord Voldemort has moved beyond such menial concerns as happiness.

Yet there are rare moments when he falls into a near trancelike state, the closest he will ever come to sleeping again, and as his mind wanders down ill-used trails, memories bubbling up to ensnare him in tarpits or vats of quicksand.

He remembers the way her mouth would form a perfect _o_ while blowing on her morning coffee, the way her hands curved around the mug as she attempted to shudder into wakefulness, how her thigh would press against his under the table with too much force to be mistaken. He’d dragged her to the Slytherin table nearly every morning for months, and never once had she complained, content to follow him with that easy smile and knowing brown eyes. He’d liked that long ago, he remembers.

He recalls the weight of her palm in his as she dragged him down yet another row of Dittany trees, explaining with the other hand the irrigation system, the field rotation, the average lifespan of a magically altered tree. Tom recalls that he did not care for any of the information at all, only the feel of her skin against his, noting the way the sun turned caramel hair near golden, as if she was something precious, something decidedly _his_.

But most often when he sinks into the liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, he remembers the look upon her face as she’d lifted from the ground, writhing in the air in undeniable agony because of the fire he had wrought. Tom remembers, and if he could feel anything, perhaps he might feel grief and having rendered something so beautiful so gruesome, how he could have pushed a person of such skill and power away with so little. She had beaten him to flying, and Tom remembers only the wretchedness in her face as her eyes met his, burning him with a mark he’d never been able to remove.

And whether in wakefulness or in illusion, Tom cannot escape the knowledge that somewhere, at some time, someone had loved him. _Florence Allman_ had loved him, and no amount of journeying or studying or amassing of knowledge had explained to him what that meant, why it still after all these years meant anything at all.

When Lord Voldemort and the boy – the boy who’s birthday was _her_ birthday – circle in the Entrance Hall of Hogwarts, he sneers at Harry Potter’s demands for remorse. He had only ever regretted this one thing: that he’d never found an answer to the insipid, Dumbledore-esc mysteries of love, and that he had somehow lost Florence Allman because of it, that in the end all his dreams had been inconsequential without her in them.

The spell, his own spell, hits his chest – there is an echo of laughter, and then nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please don't hate me for this chapter I literally cried my way through it.
> 
> Chapter 52 coming right up...


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please make sure you have read chapter 51 before you read this chapter!!!!!
> 
> adkjfadfhadfhadkfj THIS ONES A DOOZY FOLKS:):):)

**Chapter 52**

“We are all broken by something. We have all hurt someone and have been hurt. We all share the condition of brokenness even if our brokenness is not equivalent. I desperately wanted mercy for Jimmy Dill and would have done anything to create justice for him, but I couldn’t pretend that his struggle was disconnected from my own. The ways in which I have been hurt—and have hurt others—are different from the ways Jimmy Dill suffered and caused suffering. But our shared brokenness connected us.” 

  
― Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption

The air is warm beneath her wings as Illini circles her clearing far above, the pale morning light lending her cover as she moves in and out of low hanging clouds. Even at such a height she can smell the human-cub Florence, can see the small, brown figure leaning upon the boy-tree, magic-tree holding the bitter smelling brown water that she brings with her often. The wind ruffles her feathers, her tail whipping through the air behind her as she begins to angle down just slightly, moving in slow, gentle loops towards the ground.

There had been a time when Florence-cub did not visit, when the land had cried out for her song, but whether it was one year or fifty Illini does not know. Time means little to the Piasa who knew this land before people of any kind were upon it, when there had been other creatures like her to tame the skies and cull the other animals of the forest. Now there is only her, and Florence-cub has begun to visit once more.

She is not even halfway to the ground when she feels the first fringes of Florence’s mind, and there is a rumble in her chest at the grief she finds there – cloying and gag inducing, like a stray bone caught in her throat or a splinter in her side. Florence-cub’s mind had been this way ever since her return, and although Illini had tried to understand, the fleeting emotions of humans that seemed to change with such rapidity were hard for her to grasp.

 _“Cub,”_ Illini remembers calling the first time Florence-cub had returned to the clearing. She knew the signs even if she did not understand the meaning – dark eyes, pale skin, the smell of _uncleanliness_ about her. The cub still looked young, perhaps only a few years older to Illini’s estimate, but then again humans were so fragile she struggled to tell. _“What has happened.”_

 _“He’s dead,”_ Florence-cub’s voice wobbled within her mind, and Illini’s chest rumbles with a growl as the depths of darkness in Florence’s mind become known to her.

_“The one you brought to me? The one who’s magic lives in the tree?”_

_“No, my husband,”_ Florence-cub had responded, and she’d pressed a thin, long-fingered paw to her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle the strangled sounds that escaped her lips. _“Although Tom is dead too.”_

Illini remembers now the last visit they had shared many moons ago, Florence-cub telling her that she was leaving the farm, that she had found another. Her mind had sung with a sense of wholeness Illini had not felt within the human-cub for many years, and she’d said the name – Forest? Forsythe perhaps? – like it was dear. _So he is gone_ Illini had thought, laying her head before the heaving, sobbing cub, her chest aching with a pain she has not felt for many years because in a solitary life, there were few who could move Illini to grief on their behalf. Adsila-cub had been the last.

 _“Dragon pox,”_ Florence-cub continued before Illini even thinks to ask. _“They wouldn’t let me near him…the medi-wizards couldn’t understand…they kept saying he was in the prime of his health.”_

 _“Cub…”_ Illini had growled, and without thinking the Piasa had used her tail to press the human-cub to her front paws, curling around the tiny thing like she was nothing more than a hatchling. Illini could not remember the last time she touched another living thing that was not a kill, and yet the instinct had been there, the aching in her cavernous, white chest increasing.

 _“He helped save my life, and I could do nothing but watch him waste away, Illini.”_ Florence-cub had trembled like a leaf against her body, and Illini had held nothing to say in response. Humans were frail, but this fact would not ease the sadness that expanded in ceaseless ripples from the mind before her.

Illini remembers all of this as she touches down upon the ground before the current-day Florence-cub, the dew upon the early morning grass wetting the fur of her stomach. The visits had continued after the first – often silent, each time the cub’s mind riddled with a heaviness that Illini could not lift. Sometimes they spoke of Florence’s life – she’d moved back to the house-beneath-the-hill – but most often Florence sat beneath the boy-tree, magic-tree and drank her bitter, brown water.

 _“Good morning, Illini,”_ Florence-cub murmurs as Illini tucks her wings into her side, adjusting slightly her stance. So this was to be a talking meeting, the Piasa muses, kneading the ground beneath her paws and claws.

_“It is early, even for you, cub.”_

Florence-cub’s mouth wrinkles in what Illini knows through their attached minds is supposed to be a smile, but she does not show her fangs.

 _“I couldn’t sleep, although I find that I almost never sleep through the night anymore,”_ she explains.

_“Do you dream of your mate?”_

_“Yes,”_ she agrees, and her voice is soft as it echoes through Illini’s mind. _“I can’t understand why even after all these years since his death the pox didn’t take me too, why I’ve been cursed to live on after him. Time itself hardly affects me – I did not care when I had another to share my future with, but now I dread each day as much as each night when I will see his face. I cannot understand what magic holds me.”_

 _“The land sings in your veins, cub,”_ Illini hums across their bond. Human time was so short, so brief, she could not comprehend the suffering Florence underwent, only understanding that it _was_ suffering of a kind. _“And time is very different to the land than to humans.”_

Florence-cub is silent after this, her mind a shifting pattern of memories that move too quickly for Illini to grasp any of them. Illini does not mind, most of her existence has been spent in silence.

 _“I dreamt of Tom last night,”_ Florence-cub says at last, and her voice is quieter still between their minds, as if somehow the thought is un-pure, like rancid meat or termite eaten wood. _“I spent fifty years with a man who made me happier than any one person has a right to be, and yet in my weakness I remember another, and I miss him and I cannot understand why.”_

Illini lets out an involuntary hiss at the surging anger that ripples across their conjoined minds. It is thick and clouded and deep running, like the taproot of a tree – long-lived and never entirely cured. She cannot understand the anger Florence-cub feels for herself. Illini herself had multiple mates long ago when the land was still young and there were other Piases upon the horizon. It was a sign of strength to take many, and she cannot grasp the human insistence at one-life-one-mate. She remembers even now the ties that had bound the human girl to the boy-wreathed-in-shadow, even if half of his spirit had been gone, and it makes perfect sense to Illini that Florence-cub might dream of the one called Tom.

_“Those who are struck by lightning and survive do not forget the pain and brilliance of the moment, no matter its brevity.”_

_“But I didn’t miss him. For decades I had Forsythe and I was happy and never once did I truly long for Tom because I had built something new, something beautiful,”_ Florence-cub insists, and her voice is high pitched and whiny, like that of a begging dog. _“But now I am alone again and it is him I think of. Am I a monster for it, Illini?”_

Illini snorts slightly, her gaze fixating upon the figure before her, the way her cub’s long-fingered paws shake around her cup, knees pressed to her chest in a cocoon-like manner. Illini thinks of Tom-cub often too, even when Florence is not present upon the clearing. The existence of the boy-tree, magic-tree makes him hard to escape, the memory of his mangled spirit, of his accusations that burned in Illini’s mind the way little else did after the centuries.

 _“What would you know of loving or giving?”_ Tom-cub’s words ring in her mind as she recalls the way his pale face warped in the moonlight. It had been long since someone challenged her. _“You, Illini, who live alone, who exist outside the confines of time, who’s reality is only that of a winged shadow. Who are you to judge me? What have you given?”_

What had she given? Illini had never found an answer, and more than one night was spent restlessly rolling these words about her head. She’d given Florence access to her clearing, a spirit to share her pain with, but peering down at the human before her, for the first time she questions if this is enough. Another wave of Florence-cub’s grief washes over their mind connection, and Illini feels her claws sink into the earth.

_“He touched your spirit, my cub. That connection is not so easy erased.”_

_“But it didn’t used to hurt, it was nothing at all when I had Forsythe.”_

_“No two rivers are alike, Cub. They take different paths, winding or straight, steep or shallow, but just because one river reaches the ocean first does not mean that the other shall not also reach the same destination,”_ Illini rumbles. _“The presence of one river does not negate the existence of the other.”_

Illini watches as Florence-cub’s eyes flicker closed, her head rolling back against the boy-tree, magic-tree as Illini’s words roll through her mind. She does not move, her bitter brown water forgotten as the steam rising off of it slows and then ceases. Finally, the human stands and bows in Illini’s direction before turning and making her way back down the hill, carrying with her the grief laden thoughts until the connection is severed.

Illini curls upon the mossy hilltop, intent upon sleeping, but her mind will not still and her eyes warily shift and focus upon the silver tree that she’d agreed to plant so long ago. _What have you given_ Tom-cub’s voice echoes in her head, and Illini considers the question, peeling away moment by moment through the never-ending years of her life, seeking an answer to his demands. _What have you given_ she asks herself, but there is only silence.

Illini thinks of Florence-cub who is one of the last two-legs to sing with the land, who remembered the old ways of the people who had worshiped Illini like a god, and she mourns for herself. _Who after Florence-cub would she have?_ Illini may be beyond the confines of time, but always there had been at least one other being…but now? _Time itself hardly affects me – I did not care when I had another to share my future with_ Florene had said, and suddenly Illini understands, further disquiet seeping into her heart.

Thousands of years and never once had she questioned what it was all for, yet now Florence-cub’s grief and Tom-cub’s questions weighed upon her mind like an inescapable cloak of darkness. Illini growls, but the sound echoes around the clearing and there is nothing to answer beyond the indignant squawks of waking songbirds. Without thinking she shuffles forward, bringing her head closer to the boy-tree, magic-tree.

Illini can feel it – the traces of magic that had oozed from the Tom-cub’s body – just as she can hear the song of her Florence-cub, the two swirling within the very sap of the tree. There is again a pang of sadness within her on behalf of the last creature who would love her. _It didn’t used to hurt_ Florence-cub had said, a plea for an end to her agony.

_What have you given?_

Illini’s nose inches closer to the bark of the tree, and she can feel the blood that thrums through her veins, the air that swirls within her great lungs. _To forgo death is to sacrifice life_ – how right she had been, for the Tom-cub, but for herself also. A sense of finality settles over her, a purr emanating from her chest – she does not know what she _has_ given, but Illini knows what she _will_ give.

Her nose touches the bark of the tree. Illini takes one deep breath and then another, the metallic scent of Dittany filling her nostrils, the vaguest recollections of the bitter, brown water still perfuming the air.

There is a rush of wind in her ears, the thrill of magic within her, and then all is white.

{{{}}}

Florence pulls the blanket around her shoulders a bit tighter, watching as the first few rays of sunrise peak over the fields of Dittany to the East. Behind her, she hears the telltale _creak_ of the screen door, and then June is there – round eyes nearly white with cataracts – sliding a tray of coffee and biscuits onto the table beside her. Florence pats the elf’s head, inviting her to take the seat next to her, and then pours herself another cup of coffee.

Talking with Illini never relieved Florence’s anxiety, but it did lessen even if just for the briefest of moments the nauseating sense of isolation that permeated every hour of her waking life. It had been three years since she’d moved back onto the Allman estate, since she had trained and finally passed over Forsythe’s family farm to Tallulah’s oldest son Luis, and she’d had little human interaction since then. Albion and Owen stopped by occasionally, but the differences in their visages, the obvious lack of effect time had upon Florence’s body had made their relationships strained until they had finally broken. Albion was preparing to pass off the major farm operations to his eldest daughter, and Owen had a deadline to meet for his second, highly anticipated text on the intricacies of nuclear transfiguration, and Florence… _And I’m a widow_ Florence thinks with a streak of bitterness so wide that for many minutes she can think of nothing else.

She’d tried – truly tried to run the Blount property after Forsythe’s passing, but how could she be expected to walk upon land that made her chest feel as if it was bleeding and her breathing cease with suppressed sobs? They had built something together, and now one half of her whole was gone. She’d written to Tallulah, and with her sister-in-law’s blessing and Luis’ willing desire to take over the Estate, Florence had spent a year training him and then vacated the land that she’d learned to love more than perhaps she loved herself.

Peering out over the sunrise, Florence notes that the pink camellia’s that she and Forsythe planted have just begun to bloom, the Wisteria trellis already at its peak beauty with long purple flowers forming nearly a quarter mile long archway. When she’d awoken before the sun, she’d looked out to see mist swirling beneath the arch, and felt thus compelled to visit Illini. It wasn’t often that Florence felt urged to do anything anymore, and so she’d cast the quilt from her form, pulled on some dirty clothes from her hamper, fetched a cup of coffee, and set out.

 _The presence of one river does not negate the existence of the other_ the Piasa had said. Florence snorts at this comment. _Leave it to Illini to give me vagaries like that._ She didn’t even know why she had talked about Tom, but like everything else that had ever concerned him, she hadn’t thought at all – the words had just sprung forth like a stream from a leaky faucet.

The memories of him had pushed her to illness when they’d first started to resurface, nights spent feverishly tossing and turning, awaking in the morning severely dehydrated, mouth like stuffed cotton. _Why him, why now_ she’d think over and over until the room was spinning and she had enough wherewithal to call June or Cash for some water. In the early days, she’d hardly had the energy to leave her room, terrified by what else might remind her of midnight eyes and a radiant smile and a voice of caged thunder when all of her senses seemed to be betraying her.

It had started in her dreams, but soon it was everywhere, replacing the nightmare of Forsythe’s absence with the nightmare of remembering. _I want whatever it is you are. Magic has made your soul for mine. I will carve your name into time itself._ Hadn’t she forgotten those words? She had burned them, she’d scorched every reminder of his presence from her physical life, and yet some mornings she woke recalling the touch of pale fingers on her skin and the thrill of conquest when he’d compliment her spellwork, and then Florence would sob – for being weak, for remembering at all.

Forsythe felt like a beloved childhood story – pages paper thin from years of use, creased and smudged, a familiar weight within her mind knowing the ending, that it could in some way be returned to – at least in her memories.

Tom felt like a half finished novel, a symphony without the closing crescendo, and her body and mind betrayed her as they longed for the end – for closure she had not considered nor thought of in over fifty years.

Illini believed he had touched her spirit – is that why pressing her palm against the Dittany tree that rang with his magic still sent a pulse of electricity up her arm? Or was it just that she was lonely, finally driven insane by a life of such turbulent highs and lows, a life that showed no sign of ever ending. Florence had kept the copy of the _Wizarding Times_ , reading in her moments of fear the headline: _Lord Voldemort’s Reign of Terror at an End! How Wizarding Boy Hero Harry Potter Saved a Civilization._ He was gone and Forsythe was gone and her parents were gone and no amount of frenzied dreams or phantom longings would change that.

Florence’s gaze strays back to the door when she hears it swing open once more. June – in her age – had ceased to apparate everywhere because she often overshot her destination. Florence had asked her to retire nearly weekly for a time, but the old house elf had finally turned and hit Florence on the back of the leg with a frying pan and threatened to serve her only collard greens day in and day out for a year, thoroughly ending the conversation.

“Would Missy Florence like eggs and bacon?” June calls from the door, her small frame nearly quaking with excitement at the prospect.

“That would be lovely, thank you Junebug,” Florence calls in response. She wasn’t hungry, but she’d hated the broken expression upon her friend’s faces when she turned away meals, and so she ate for them even if she did not have the stomach for food herself.

“Will Mister Forsythe be wanting breakfast this morning?” June asks, smiling serenely from the doorway. Florence feels a layer of ice wrap around her heart, and her next breath is deep and rattling. This was not the first time the elf had forgotten in her age what had become of Florence’s husband – she like Florence had been kept from Forsythe’s room during the final weeks for her protection – and yet each time the elf spoke the name it was like experiencing it all over again. Florence closes her eyes, the memory resurfacing against her will.

Forsythe smiled at her from their bed, his tan skin covered in a layer of sweat, the greenish tinge ghastly against the red sores that covered him. Florence hovered in the doorway, prevented by the magical barrier erected by the Medi-wizards from entering her own room, her hand pressing against it helplessly as she tried to return his smile.

“How’s the land?” Forsythe asked, his voice a far cry from the deep, steady tones that had kept Florence company throughout the decades. She swallows, blinking back tears, and attempts another smile. It was rare Forsythe had the energy to talk these days, and Florence didn’t want to ruin the moment by crying.

“Singing,” she murmured. They had rearranged the bedroom so that Forsythe could stare out the window at the fields without turning his head. When he wasn’t asleep – which was rare – Florence would sit in the doorway and watch his flickering, sightless gaze sweep over the rows. “The land is singing – it misses you.”

“Good…good…” he’d murmured, and Florence wondered how much of him was truly there. His gaze hovered somewhere just over her head, and Florence knew he couldn’t see her at all despite his head being turned in her direction.

“Tallulah’s on her way from Mexico City with the kids, Forsythe,” Florence tells him. Her throat is getting smaller, each breath bringing in less and less oxygen. Again the gentle, easy smile that had accompanied Florence for the better part of her life spreads across his face and there is a swooping sensation in her stomach because even now, fevered and ill and unable to see her Forsythe is more handsome than anyone has a right to be.

“Lu,” he whispers, and his voice is like the wind through the trees. Florence feels tears spill over then. “Maybe we can go walk in our fields later, Flor,” Forsythe said a moment later, and Florence has to bite her lip to the point of drawing blood in order to answer him.

“I’d like that,” she chokes. Forsythe is squirming under the blankets now, his face running with a new layer of sweat, and she watches as the smile on his face grows tight and drawn.

“I think you’re wonderful,” Forsythe said, but Florence knows he is no longer in the present with her, his head tossing side to side, copper curls plastered to his forehead as his mind recedes into memory.

“Forsythe,” Florence calls, and she cannot keep the hint of urgency from her tones any more than she can stop the stream of tears leaking down her face. His squirming turns to thrashing, and Florence reaches for the mirror that will summon the Medi-wizards, whispering desperately into the glass, summoning them with all haste to their home. “Forsythe, honey, the Medi-wizards will be here soon.” She presses both hands against the invisible barrier, but it is unmovable as stone.

Foam begins to form in the corners of his mouth, his entire form shaking like a leaf in a tornado. Florence calls his name, she calls it until her voice is hoarse and the house elves have come running to see what has caused her distressed, but still the Medi-wizards have not arrived and Forsythe’s body thrashes with an internal fire no one can heal.

And then suddenly as it started, the trembling stops, and Florence watches his chest rise in one rattling breath.

“ _What about Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe Blount?”_ He whispers, his head falling to the side so that once more so that she can see his eyes, the flickering of something resembling knowing deep in their sage depths. Florence lets out a sob, her entire body convulsing with the promise in his words, fifty years flashing before her eyes in an instant. Somewhere in the back of her mind she hears several sets of feet moving down the hall downstairs, anxious and hurried.

“Yes,” she whispers. “It’s perfect.”

Across the room Forsythe’s face relaxes in a smile, and then she sees the air slide from his lungs, the way his chest decompresses, and his eyes flicker closed. The Medi-wizards are there to stop herself from causing bodily harm when she throws herself repeatedly against the barrier, as she scratches her skin bloody in a vain attempt to reach him, even though she knows the truth.

Florence shudders from the memory, her mind resurfacing in the present where June waits dutifully beside the door for an answer. Every nerve within her body is on fire, but Florence forces herself to smile weakly, to forgive the creature who had no idea the pain her question inflicts.

“No, Forsythe isn’t hungry this morning, Junebug. But thank you.”

When she is alone again, Florence turns back to the field of camellia and wisteria, considering again her idea to plant orange azaleas between all the rows. There wasn’t much space for them, but at least it would give her something to do, and maybe it would provide enough distraction from the thoughts that haunted her.

Florence reaches for her coffee, and there is a spasm across her face as she remembers for a moment Tom seated beside her, his marble etched face flushed with delight as he was presented with a cup of steaming black tea. Shaking her head, Florence gulps down the burning liquid, wondering morosely if she is truly going insane. She grieves for Forsythe – for what they had – and she grieves for Tom – for what might have been, for those choices that had ripped them apart. She grieves for herself to be alone, aging as if in brine, time moving forward around her and leaving Florence behind.

She is staring unseeingly at the wisteria trellis when she see first notices it.

A black speck moving through the purple blooms, Florence knows it is undeniably alive simply because every few steps it sways to the side as if unsteady upon its feet, and there is no plant that moves in the wind that way. _Perhaps a deer_ Florence thinks, blinking a few times to clear her mind, but no – it was well past sunrise now, and deer in these parts were nocturnal. She watches, taking another sip of her coffee, as the speck becomes a figure – a _human_ figure. _Did one of the staff get hurt?_ Perhaps they were dragging themselves back from the field after a long night of agony. The thought forms a pit in her stomach, and Florence gets to her feet while simultaneously reaching for her wand.

She watches with mingled fear and anticipation as the person moves closer, stopping every few stumbling steps to catch their breath. Florence considers calling out, but something within her urges for silence, an animalistic sense that whatever was approaching may possibly be dangerous, and so she stands and waits, her eyes never leaving the steady movement of the figure up the pathway.

The person has nearly reached the edge of the trellis, surfacing into the light when Florence feels her chest shudder, a ripple of energy throughout her entire being that she has not felt for five decades. Her mind kicks into overdrive, piecing together the undeniable truth before her, the details her memory has stored away over the years despite her attempts to erase them. _It is not possible… it cannot be…_ she thinks, but her spirit which feels as if it is leaping from a mountaintop confirms what her mind and eyes cannot accept.

There is only one person who has ever moved in such a way – predatory, even stumbling, like smoke incarnate. Florence has not seen it in half a century, and yet she cannot forget the undeniable grace, the fluidity with which he moved that had at all times rendered her speechless – which renders her speechless now. Inside her, everything is screaming, her head light and knees weak and her skin itching because _it cannot be_. But, it seems, it can because the figure takes the final steps forward and Florence feels bile rise in her throat as a face of priceless porcelain, as eyes dark as midnight slide into view, and her entire world slides out of focus.

Tom Riddle stares at her across the grass, one hand wrapped around his ribs as if each breath pains him, the other hanging limply by his side. His stance is staggered as he stumbles forward again, and in the early vestiges of hysteria, Florence thinks of watching a baby take its first steps, the wobbling uncertainty with which they move.

Tom Riddle moves towards her, his eyes never leaving her face, his pace remaining constant despite the discomfort that obviously courses through him with each step. Florence is glued to the back porch, burning beneath a gaze she had not thought to see again, a gaze that she had never forgotten, which even now reduced her to ash and tears and a shaking, quivering mess. _It cannot be,_ but it was – her tongue tasting the metallic ring of magic – _his_ magic – upon the air, her eyes drinking in against her will the flawless skin, the delicate fingers which press into his side as if stymieing an open wound.

Tom Riddle stops at the foot of the stairs, his face upturned to hers, midnight eyes gazing upon her face as if she is a well in the middle of a desert, and Florence ceases to breathe at all. Florence wonders what she did in a past life to endure this, what atrocity she must have committed to look once more upon the face of a man who had committed genocide and feel excitement – no – a _leaping_ in her heart as if she’d been hit by a shooting star. One breath passes, and she considers vomiting, remembering the last time they stood like this he’d called her nothing, he’d burned her trees to the ground.

“Florence,” he croaks, and his voice is thunder despite its dryness and Florence knows she must be in hell because no one has ever said her name like a song, no one has ever made her want to hear it again and again and again.

“Tom,” she whispers in return because what else is there to say, and three steps below her the sagging figure of Tom Riddle smiles, broad and blinding, his face warping with a joy she has never seen there even in their happiest of moments. Florence stands transfixed for one electrifying moment, every nerve in her body burning, and then she watches as the smile slides from his form and his body tips backward, Tom Riddle crumpling to the ground in a faint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOMP
> 
> I have been writing nearly 300,000 words for this moment??? Are you in shock? Do you hate it? Are you screaming into the void? I've been dying to tell you Tom will be back, but I didn't know how to say "I'm staying cannon compliant but also Tom's not gone" without giving up the entire game. Do things make sense now? Are you still furious? 
> 
> I confess to be shaking a bit as I type this AN cause I have no idea what I think all of you readers will think, but i am incredibly humbled that anyone will be reading this at all, so THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart. So much more to come, almost done with chapter 54 and there is still lots of plot and angst and our favorite broody boi is back and i'm THRILLED about it :)


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm procrastinating by posting this, but that is literally nothing new. 
> 
> THANK YOU FOR ALL YOU REVIEWS ON THE LAST TWO CHAPTERS!!!! We're in the home stretch (well sort of - still a chunk to go)
> 
> I'm blasting my Nutcracker Vinyl and having a great day. I hope you all are as well!!

**Chapter 53**

“Sometimes it's exhausting for me to simply walk into the house. I try and calm myself, remember that I've lived alone before. Sleeping by myself didn't kill me then and will not kill me now. But this what loss has taught me of love. Our house isn't simply _empty_ , our home _has been emptied_. Love makes a place in your life, it makes a place for itself in your bed. Invisibly, it makes a place in your body, rerouting all your blood vessels, throbbing right alongside your heart. When it's gone, nothing is whole again.” 

  
― Tayari Jones, An American Marriage

She stares at him. She stares at him shamelessly, his limp form cast across the sofa in one of her sitting rooms where she’d levitated him, because what else can she do? _He’s dead. He’s supposed to be dead._ But he is not. Tom Riddle is lying upon her couch, his chest rising and falling in an undeniable sign of life, his mouth parted in sleep such a familiar detail to Florence that again she fights the urge to vomit.

June had ignored Florence’s protest and placed a pillow beneath his head, smoothing the chocolate curls across his forehead before draping him in a spare blanket from the cupboard. She’d then returned with a steaming pot of tea and a singular cup and saucer a few minutes later, as if not a day had passed since Tom was last in her home, since Tom was last _alive._ Florence stares at the teapot when staring at his face becomes unbearable, somewhere in the back of her mind wondering when the house elf had restocked on the forbidden item.

Florence cannot help but notice how young he looks – face unlined, skin smooth as dove’s feathers. He appears close to the same age he had been the last time she had seen him, perhaps twenty or so, the hair that curls beneath his ears a giveaway despite the erasure of the bags beneath his eyes, his face fuller than the emaciated state in which he’d propositioned her. Despite the fact that he should not exist at all, Florence is amazed at how _healthy_ he looks, his clear visage a stark reminder of the shadows that had haunted him in their final years.

 _What have I done to deserve this_ she asks herself for the hundredth time, but only the steady sound of Tom’s breathing answers her.

It is hours later, the light outside the window having moved so that the shadows spanning the floor are long and narrow, that Tom shifts awake. Florence is curled into a ball so tight in the chair across from him that she could not release herself even if she tried, and so she watches with a wide-eyed stare as his eyes flicker open, his face falls to the side peering around the room. At once his gaze is upon her, Florence’s chest constricting to the point of pain.

It is a small mercy that he does not smile at her. She does not think she could bear it.

Tom sits up slowly, wincing and pressing a palm to his chest as if the action pains him greatly, but at last his feet are set upon the floor, elbows resting upon his knees. He pulls the blanket from him, eyes lifted to Florence’s in a question, as if asking _did you do this?_ She remains silent, unflinching, not trusting herself to speak. _What have I done to deserve this_ she asks herself again, but again there is no response.

“Tea,” he croaks at last, and something inside Florence seems to give way at the sound of his voice, a sign to her frenzied mind that he is truly there – that against all reason Tom Riddle is alive and in her home. When his eyes meet hers again with the same questioning stare, Florence shakes her head slightly.

“June’s doing.”

“I see,” he rumbles, pressing his palm against his sternum again. He stares at her unabashedly, and Florence feels a trickle of cold sweat along the back of her neck, a vague nausea in her stomach. “Could I trouble you for some water?”

For a moment she reels at the request, but then she moves with more speed than she thought possible, suddenly desperate to escape the room where he lay. Out in the hallway, Florence leans against the wall. _Tom Riddle – mass murderer – is alive in my sitting room._ The thought is so overwhelming that Florence has to fight the peel of hysterical laughter that threatens to bubble up her throat and tear her lungs apart. She stumbles down the hall several deep breaths later, fetching a pitcher and tray and tapping it once with her wand to fill. Florence can feel her body shivering as she pulls a cup from one of the cabinets, levitating the tray before her so that she will not have to approach him when she returns to the room.

Tom is where she left him, his gaze fixed upon the myriad of paintings along the wall, his porcelain skin drawn in what can only be a look of distaste. Against her better judgement, she wonders if he is in pain, or if something else is bothering him. Never before has she seen so many expressions upon his skin, and it unnerves her now to do so, to be able to easily read his thoughts without the presence of one of his many masks. In her hysteria, she almost wishes for the impassivity that he’d once bore, if only to still her racing heart.

The tray lands on the table beside the teapot, and Tom takes to the water like a man starved, not even stopping to thank her. Florence watches as he pours glass after glass of water, paling slightly as she notices droplets that run over and down his face, landing upon the black material of his pant leg. With another silent flick of her wand, she refills the pitcher when it is empty. Tom watches it fill with almost maniacal greed, midnight eyes nearly popping from his face, mouth parted in obvious desire, but before he moves to refill his cup, his eyes move to hers, face rapt with what can only be described as exaltation.

“Thank you,” he groans, pouring another glass before draining this one too. Florence’s gaze watches his adam’s apple bob with each desperate mouthful of water, consuming the cool liquid with such gusto she wonders if he will be sick.

“Slow down,” she commands from across the room, her skin too hot and then too cold as she watches him, her body still unsure of how to respond to the presence of the man across from her. Tom’s eyes, his _fucking midnight blue eyes_ , meet hers, and it is a sin that he can look at her in such a way – it is a sin he can look at her at all since he is, by all accounts, dead. “You’ll get sick,” she adds, her voice loud in a room that abruptly feels too small.

“Alright,” Tom agrees, setting down his glass, leaning back against the sofa with an air of confidence that stabilizes Florence slightly. _This_ is a Tom she remembers, self-assured in all matters, direct and perceiving, and the familiarity of his arm stretched languidly across the back of the chair calms Florence’s mind. Silence stretches between them, but Florence has never backed down to Tom Riddle – not in their private lessons as a schoolgirl, and certainly not now when he had invaded her home, defied the laws of magic and reality.

“You were dead,” she states, staring at his face for any flinch, any movement at all.

“I was in limbo,” Tom corrects, and the corner of his mouth turns up in the faintest hint of a smirk. Rage surges through Florence then, that even now after all this time he would dare to make her feel small, to ridicule her for something she does not know.

“Explain,” she says, her voice shaking as she crosses her arms before her chest.

“My soul was split, I was trapped in a liminal space, unable to move into the Beyond, unable to return to the world of the living,” Tom states. His eyes are glowing, as if daring her to challenge his assertion, a mockery of the debates they had once held in the Hogwarts library. Florence hates him for it – for his ability to stir such a reaction within her now after so long.

“Then how are you here,” she hisses, and her hands are fists and her mind is swimming, and she does not know if she wants to run the back of her finger across his cheek or punch him.

“Illini brought me here,” he says, and this comment causes his mouth to turn downward in a frown. Again, he presses his palm to his sternum. “She gave her soul to repair mine, she…mended me…and then merged me with the residues of magic in our tree.”

If Florence had been standing when Tom’s statement reached her ears, she knows she would have fallen to the floor. As it is, her vision turns black for a moment, her chest heaving with its sudden inability to bring in air. She falls back against the cushions behind her, mind struggling to comprehend the unfathomable claims that Tom has lobbied. _She gave her soul to repair mine._ As far as Florence knew, souls were not a _transferable_ item – and yet, Illini was a magical creature, who was to say what the Piasa was capable of? Who was Florence to challenge the power of such a being?

The second realization of Tom’s statement hits her like a blow to the stomach, and unbidden tears prick her eyes.

“So Illini?” She whispers, her eyes fixed upon the ceiling. “She is gone?”

“Yes, she is gone.”

“Why you?” Florence spits, rocking forward so quickly that she sways in her seat, threatening to topple to the floor. Tom’s eyes are wide before her, one hand raised as if in defense, but Florence could care less. She has only the capacity for her anger now, fury rippling through her in such waves that there is no question that Tom can feel them. “Why would she give her life for yours – after everything you did to me – she knew how it ripped me apart, so why? You didn’t deserve it, you _don’t_ deserve it.”

Tom stares at her silently, one palm facing her, the other pressed to his chest, the first of his trademark blank expressions sliding onto his face. The sight of it does not bring Florence relief, instead throwing her into a deeper rage. Who was he to deserve a second chance? Forsythe had been good and kind and he had died like everyone else and Florence had been forced to watch – so why was Tom afforded even one more night under the sun? What had Illini been thinking?

“Why?” she demands again, and her voice cracks slightly. _Why me_ she does not add.

“I do not know,” he murmurs, and Florence can see the line of tension in his jaw at having to admit his own shortcoming.

“How do you know how she revived you, and yet not know this?”

“Our spirits connected, during the magic – during the _transition_. As I became aware once more, I felt what was occurring,” Tom says through another frown, and Florence wants to slap him until his voice is as hysterical as her own. “She was thinking of you.”

“No she wasn’t,” Florence hisses. “If she had been thinking of me, she would not have done this. Subjected me to this.”

Tom shrugs as if to say _if that is easier to believe_ but he does not speak. Silence stretches on again, and Florence watches as Tom finishes the second pitcher of water before finally pouring himself a cup of tea. The sight is almost too much, and Florence must close her eyes to stop herself from watching the way his fingers curl around the saucer, his lips pressing to the demitasse cup.

“Do you remember?” Florence finally asks, her eyes peeling open only after she hears the telltale sound of the saucer being set once more upon the table. Tom’s face is still, not one curl out of place.

“Yes,” he murmurs, his voice raw as he forms the word. “All of it. Hogwarts, you, the years in between, the thing that I became.”

“The thing that you are,” Florence accuses, her throat tightening.

“No,” he counters. “The thing that I was. I have a new soul, Florence, I cannot be the same.”

A small sigh escapes her as she feels the onset of a headache forming around her temples. It is confounding magic – as confusing as anything Illini had said to her in life – why would she not be confounding in death too? Florence feels exhaustion beginning to seep into her bones, any residual adrenaline from the initial shock of Tom’s existence finally leaving her system. She meets his gaze, but no longer has even the energy to be amazed by his presence.

“Tomorrow we will leave for the Lodge,” she says after a moment, her eyes never leaving his. “No one can know that you’re back, and I won’t risk anyone else’s life until I know what you are.”

“I’ve told you what I am,” Tom frowns, leaning forward slightly. “And you know who I am, Florence.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” she mutters, getting to her feet. She calls for June and Cash, who appear a moment later with simultaneous _cracks_. Cash lets go of June’s hand having held onto the house elf to guide her through apparition.

“June, Cash,” Florence calls to them. “Please escort Tom to one of the guest rooms. I would like for you to lock all windows and doors, and under no circumstance is he to exit the room this evening. You may bring him dinner at seven tonight and a self-refilling water pitcher, but nothing more. Speak to no one outside of this house of his presence – tomorrow we leave for the Lodge.”

Her voice does not quiver, nor do her umber eyes stray from his obsidian as she speaks. She feels like a rabbit with a snake in her warren – at any moment he could lunge for her, sinking his teeth in and ripping her to shreds. Any sign of weakness he will surely use against her – that is what he did before, weaponizing her feelings for him until she was a shell of a human, longing only for him. Tom, for his part, does not flinch. He meets her gaze, getting to his feet at the conclusion of her speech and following June without a word from the room. She can feel his eyes upon her with every step until at last he disappears into the hallway, severing their connection.

It is only when Florence hears the door to the guest room close above her that she allows herself to weep – for Illini, whom she loved, for Forsythe, whom she misses, and for herself and the situation she finds herself in.

.

.

.

That night she takes herself to Illini’s copse. The clearing is deserted, the full moon turning the grass silver as Florence listens to the quiet rustlings of nocturnal animals around her. There is a weight in her throat as she steps beyond the tree line, her eyes searching for what her mind has already accepted she will not find.

Slowly, her gaze moves from the star riddled sky down to the copse once more, circling about the clearing, inspecting each branch for signs that something has changed. It takes one full circle before she sees it – or truly the lack of it.

The Dittany tree she had planted all those years ago is gone, just like the Piasa.

.

.

.

Florence does not sleep that night. She spends the early hours of the morning packing, her frazzled mind sending her back and forth between her closet and bathroom and to various other rooms in the house as she thinks of things she may want over her stay. She does not know how long they will be gone, nor does she know what to do with Tom once she gets to the Lodge, she only knows that he is a threat as long as they stay upon the Allman property, and she will not be responsible for any more of his murders.

She is seated upon the back porch when Tom is escorted through the screen door by a smiling June, her tiny hand fisted in the black material of his pants. Vaguely she wonders if she should offer him new clothes, but then she remembers that Illini is gone because of him, and the offer dies on her tongue. He stares at her, and Florence feels her stomach twist, thankful that he does not attempt to move closer.

“Are you hungry?” She forces herself to ask.

“Not particularly,” Tom responds, and his voice is closer to the voice she remembers – smooth and solid now that he’s had water and food to balance his system. Florence shivers, and looks out over the fields.

“Then we’re leaving now. June, you’ll escort Tom through the Floo.”

If Tom is annoyed by having the two house elves tailing him, he makes no sign of it, his face as blank as ever as he moves down the hall and into the main parlor where a fire is already roaring in the grate. Florence watches the two of them step into the green flames and disappear, following soon after to resurface in the dark, wood paneled room of the old family hunting lodge. It was hers now, a gift from Eudora Allman herself in her mom’s will that had shocked Florence into muteness, and the perfect place to retreat too if she wanted to isolate. The nearest home was not for miles around.

With a flick of her wand to close the Floo network – _we don’t want any unsanctioned return trips_ Florence thinks privately – she crosses the room, heading towards the stairwell and her bedroom where she intends to try and make up for her lost sleep. At the doorway, she halts, looking over her shoulder at Tom who is the only figure remaining in the room. His eyes are bright as they trace over Florence’s body, and against her will she feels herself flush, seventeen years old again under his gaze.

“You may go anywhere you like in the house or on the property,” she tells him, fighting to keep her voice void of emotion. “I’ll be erecting wards to notify me if you try and leave. And,” she adds, her voice dipping dangerously low as she recalls a slip of Philip’s tongue all those years ago about a dead client of Borgin’s and a house elf. “If you so much as raise your voice at either June or Cash, so help me god I will rip your arms from your undeserving body, do you understand me?”

Tom stares at her, the impassive gleam within his eyes the only reaction he manages to give before Florence has swept from the room, fleeing up the stairs.

Days pass.

Florence manages to avoid Tom for hours at a time, the benefit of a large home and a private staff that is willing to bring her meals to her bedroom suite. She knows somewhere in the back of her mind that she is being a coward, that she is running from a conversation that must be had, but the idea of speaking with him makes her feel trembling and weak and feverish all over. _He’s not going to stop being alive just because you ignore him_ a clinical voice at the back of her mind reminds her at night when her brain keeps her from sleeping.

Tom, for all of his natural brilliance, seems to sense that she is avoiding him and he does not press her. Florence does not even know if he _wants_ to see her. If he is to be believed, Tom did not intend to return to the world of the living, and he certainly did not intend to stumble once more into Florence’s life, and yet she cannot forgive him his presence because whether intended or not, he _is_ here and Florence must deal with the repercussions of this fact. How he spends his days she does not know, but she spots him from her window meandering through the English garden once morning, and other days she finds half read books open in the library.

She flips through the titles of these tomes, unsurprised to see that they cover a variety of topics, floored to find children’s tales and wizarding novella’s in the mix of texts. Against her better judgement she finds herself wanting to ask why he’s chosen these particular works, a strange need to know if this Tom Riddle who appeared from the mist is the same as the one that ripped her still beating heart from her chest, or if he is – as he has stated himself – _different_.

Yet despite the size of the house and the limited number of guests which occupy its walls, Florence cannot avoid him indefinitely. It occurs most often around meal times, Florence or Tom happening upon the other in the dining room or kitchen, freezing upon the spot as they watch the other pause mid-bite. Other times they pass each other in the hallway – Tom always stepping to the side so that Florence can move by without risk of touching him, her footsteps carrying her hurriedly away from the figure she has to fight not to look back upon. And on a few rare occasions, Florence happens upon Tom in one of the sitting rooms, long legs crossed, his pale face staring out the window with an undeniable expression of disquiet.

His eyes follow her like a tracking hound when they do meet, two burning embers pressing into her skin at all times saying more than his mouth ever could. It is a look one shade off of accusatory, and Florence finds herself loathing him for it, for the way she cannot escape the feel of his eyes on her body even when he is gone. Who was he to make her feel guilty? He had murdered in cold blood countless scores of Wizards and NoMaj’s alike, at yet one blank stare from him was enough to send her running, tail between her legs back to her bedroom. _Those who are struck by lightning and survive do not forget the pain and brilliance of the moment, no matter its brevity_ Florence remembers, and she lays awake at night wondering if Tom is lightning or a curse or some dark, perverse dream.

But it is in the mornings when she drinks her coffee and pretends not to feel the biting cold on the back step that Florence feels guiltiest of all, because she has never been able to lie to herself, and she certainly can’t now when it takes all of her metal fortitude to even get out of bed. Guilty because she doesn’t hate him at all, guilty because she knows what he is and who he became and how he hurt her, yet something in her heart thunders to a stop every time she sees him. Guilty because Florence wants to ask him of the magic that made him real and of the magic that she is terrified binds them still.

Guilty because she feels again the stirrings of inevitability that had haunted her since that first meal at Hogwarts, because she wants to know what will happen if she touches him – if he touches her.

But she ignores these thoughts, utilizing self-restraint that she had learned over her abnormally long life, ducking through doorways and looking over her shoulder and always careful never to linger in one room too long. Her voice goes hoarse from lack of use, her nerves skittish to every sound, every creak within the wooden house. The barn she quickly realizes is the only safe space – a territory Tom Riddle despised – and so she takes to long rides through the snow or in the indoor ring and tries not to think of Tom Riddle at all.

.

.

.

Her boots are soft on the concrete, rubber soles providing only the slightest of _thuds_ with each step as she makes her way past the stalls. Idly she taps her crop against her thigh, her finger tracing the brim of her helmet which is stowed under her arm, unable to keep still even as she moves through the barn towards where her own horse is kept.

Turning around the corner, Florence’s eyes latch onto the stall door where she keeps her young colt Dolon, a fiery gray male who fought for every yard but jumped like something from a dream. She is halfway to his pen when she realizes that the door is open – in fact swinging wide – and without thinking her helmet hits the floor as she sprints the final few steps, screeching to a halt in the open doorway, adrenaline making her blood pump faster than her body can process.

Tom Riddle stands before the horse, one hand upon the colt’s head, the other running down Dolon’s neck in what was obviously meant to be a sign of affection. Florence watches transfixed as Tom meets the blinking brown gaze of the horse, never once backing away when the colt gave a magnificent snort, stamping a hoof the size of a dinnerplate into the sawdust with enough force to break a foot. After several deep breaths, Tom turns to look at her, his face still impassive as he takes in her flushed face, her heaving chest.

“What…” she splutters, her mind still reeling to comprehend what she is seeing. “What are you doing?”

“I am visiting the barn,” Tom replies with a tone that suggests this is the most natural occurrence in the world. He raises one perfectly sculpted brow at her in question, again daring her to challenge him. Florence feels her face redden even further because _how_ does he manage to make it all feel so familiar, feel as if not a day has passed.

“You hate horses,” Florence remembers, and then she flushes because Tom Riddle had once hated horses, but maybe that had changed. Maybe everything had changed.

“I do,” he agrees with a smirk that grounds Florence more than anything else, and his hands fall from Dolon’s body. “Glad to see that you remember.”

“Then what are you really doing here?”

“You have been avoiding me.”

“I’m not seventeen, and this isn’t Samhain, Tom,” Florence whispers in the face of words that bring forth a mountain of memories within her. Holding the door open and motioning for him to exit before she bolts the door to the stall behind them, Florence whirls on him, feeling the telltale tingling of rage at the base of her spine, the pressure behind her temples that he would go so far as to invade the barn – the one space she was certain she was free of him.

“Isn’t it thought, Florence?” Tom asks, and for the first time she sees the tension in his jaw, sharp enough to cut through a block of ice. His hands form into fists by his side. _Good, get angry_ she thinks recklessly, knowing fully well that Tom didn’t need a wand for magic. “You’re angry with me, angry over a truth you cannot change no matter how much you wish it wasn’t so,” he spits. “I am alive, by no choosing of my own, and I am with you, so why can’t you even _look at me_?”

Florence feels her mouth open and close, unable to miss the way his hand flinches toward her as if intending to reach for her and then thinking better of it. They are mere feet apart, but Florence can feel it, the tendril of heat that passes between their bodies, the rumbling within her chest like the waking sounds of a dragon long at slumber. Fear seizes her at the betrayal of her body, at her inability to look away from the vein pulsing on his forehead.

“I don’t know what to do,” she says at last, allowing her gaze to trace the planes of his face without remorse. He was still beautiful, painfully so, like staring into the sun until your eyes stung and tears streamed from your face.

“What does that mean?”

“It means even if I could undo Illini’s magic, I wouldn’t,” Florence admits. “I don’t know why it was her choice, but it _was_ her choice and I have to respect that, I have to live with it.”

“So you’re not going to kill me,” he sneers, crossing his arms and leaning against the stall in a very good imitation of a preening pure-blood.

“I, unlike you, am not a murderer.”

“No, you’re just a coward,” he hisses back, and his midnight eyes feel like bullets piercing her skin over and over and over again.

“What do you expect from me, Tom?” Florence demands, throwing her hands in the air beside her. “The last time I saw you, you burned my fields to the ground and told me I was nothing. You broke my heart a thousand times over and then you left to become the darkest-wizard the world has seen in a century. Do you honestly _expect_ for me to throw my arms open and welcome you back? You’re smarter than that.”

His eyes narrow as she speaks, his jaw chewing slightly on words she knows will be layered with venom when he says them. The pressure in her temples increases, and Florence rests her hands upon her hips, waiting for him to speak.

“You didn’t stay broken hearted for long, if you ever truly were,” he finally whispers, and his voice is slippery and snakelike. “How soon after I left did you marry him? How many kids did you bear him over the years? How much did you tell him about me, did he know he was second?”

“How _dare_ you,” Florence shrieks, taking a step forward so that she can jab her finger under his perfectly angled chin. Florence does not think she has ever been this angry in her life, her vision is flickering, every muscle in her body spasming. “I mourned you for an entire year, but what was I supposed to do, sit around and wait for you to come back? You’d made your choice. Your dreams over me, and so I made mine.”

“I would have taken you, had you come to me.”

Florence’s head falls back in laughter, at the sheer ridiculousness of the idea.

“And where would I be now? Dead most likely, or in a dungeon rotting away. Perhaps in Azkaban if I was lucky,” Florence hisses mirthlessly. _So he is the same_ , _I should have known, should not have hoped…_

“You said you loved me,” he taunts, but his face is gruesome with rage, brows warped, mouth a snarl. Florence turns her face to the side and laughs again even though everything inside her feels as though it’s breaking, her chest is nothing more that the slamming of wave after wave against a rocky shore, deafening and cruel.

“So you want to talk about love do you?” Florence asks, and the ache in her chest grows. “Ever figure out what it was? Did all your years of searching, all your power give you any answers?”

“It seems I did not need an answer, you found yourself a lapdog after I left—”

“ _Shut. Up_.” Florence screams, and she doesn’t care if she rips her vocal chords, if she rips every hair from her skull or her eyes fall from her face. She feels spit fly from her mouth, a strange surge of electricity that races through her as she suddenly becomes aware of the spirits of the air and the earth around her. Tom steps back, a mask sliding onto his face so that she can no longer read him.

“I don’t care what you think of me, Tom Riddle. You can call me a coward if that makes you feel like you’ve accomplished something with your undeserved second chance at life,” Florence screams, and her eyes are starting to sting as tears threaten. “But do not ever talk about Forsythe as if you knew him, you have no right…you have no _idea_ what you are talking about.”

“Then _tell me_!” Tom shouts in return, and his voice is thunder and lightning and it sucks the very air from between them. “How can I possibly ever understand if you won’t even fucking _speak_ to me, Florence?”

“What would you like to know then, Tom,” Florence sneers, and vaguely she is aware of electricity crackling in her hair, of purple bolts of lightning that jump between her fingers. Tom steps closer, now only a hair’s breadth apart. She can see the gleam in his eye, the greed that sits there because miraculous, powerful _Tom Riddle_ loves knowledge, and he thinks she will give it to him.

“ _Everything_ ,” he whispers, and his lip trembles, his face is flushed.

Florence’s smile is feral. _He always wanted the world_ she thinks.

“Fine,” Florence thunders, and she begins to pace before him, moving horizontally across the breezeway where Tom can be always before her. _“Fine_ , since it was always on your terms, I’ll tell you.” Florence wonders if she will start to fly. It has been a long time since her feet left the ground, but she feels angry enough now to summon a hurricane, to level a town. “What would you like to know first, _Tom._ Maybe I’ll tell you that I bore him no children. That I am barren, that I had to watch his dream of a family crumble before my very face, to cope with the fact that as a human specimen my body is a failure,” she seethes, and Tom’s eyes widen slightly. “But I bet you knew that, I bet you kept tabs on me from afar. After all, that’s why Lizzie stopped writing and Pyrrhus never came to the wedding – but no matter, it’s in the _past_.”

Her feet are frenzied as she moves across the concrete, her breathing sporadic as she meets his gaze, forcing him to see and to hear those facts he considers himself worthy of even though he’d been on the other side of the globe, torturing muggleborns.

“Maybe you’d like to know that I watched him die? Hmm, this man you seem to think I cared nothing for – he contracted dragon pox and they set up a magical barrier to prevent me from getting too close. I had to watch as he wasted into nothingness, Tom,” she tells him, and her voice cracks, a few tears rolling down her face. “Would you like to know I gave myself a concussion throwing myself against the barrier? That I watched him seize upon our marriage bed? Or maybe that his last thoughts were of our wedding. Are these the things you’d like to know?”

“Florence—” Tom murmurs, but she cannot stop, her tongue a whip now that it had been unleashed, intent to make him understand those things he thought he knew.

“Or best of all, perhaps you’d like to hear about the fact that I seem to age at one tenth of the rate of a normal witch or wizard.” She knows she must sound mad, her hair falling loose from her bun, her skin feverish and her voice quaking, but she cannot stop. “That my own brothers are terrified of me, that I cannot visit my nieces and nephews, that the entire city of Spectre thinks I have dabbled in dark magics for the sake of immortality.”

“Florence, I –”

“What else do you want, Tom? What else could you _possibly_ need to know?” Florence is beginning to feel lightheaded, the air around her growing warmer still as her magic is agitated. “You want to know about love? Yes I loved him. I loved him, and the most monstrous thing of all is that after everything we shared, it’s been _you_ I dream of at night for the past year,” She’s crying now, the barn no more than a blur as she presses her palms into her eyes, desperate for the pain in her chest to end, for something to release her from her misery. “After everything you did to me, all your lies, the hurt you inflicted upon myself and others, I still missed you – I missed what could have been if _you_ had chosen correctly, and I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

Silence at last reigns between them, punctuated only by Florence’s heaving sobs and sharp sniffles. She takes her face to her sleeve, but it does little to halt the river of tears that move across her cheeks and down her chin. Through watery eyes she sees Tom before her, his hands shoved into his pockets, his narrow face pale and contemplative as he observes the wreckage of her emotions.

“You really did love him,” Tom says, and it is a confirmation, not a question.

“Of course I did,” Florence hiccups, batting at a fresh wave of tears. “We built a life together, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t love you.”

“I don’t –” he begins, but Florence cuts him off with a low, pathetic laugh.

“Understand? Of course you don’t,” she sighs. “You were incapable of understanding then, and you’re too naïve to understand now.”

“Then explain it to me, _help me,”_ Tom begs, and his cheeks have taken on the rosy tone that used to make something in Florence’s chest melt. Somewhere in the back of her brain, she registers that he has never asked her for help before. She smiles at him, thin and toothless as at last Illini’s final words become clear to her. _The presence of one river does not negate the existence of the other._

“I loved Forsythe, fully and completely, but that did not mean I stopped loving you, you idiot.”

Tom’s mouth opens and closes, his jaw appearing to have become unhinged as a visible shiver passes through his body. The last of her anger slips from her body, and Florence moves to the stall door so that she can lean against it, summoning wordlessly and wandlessly her helmet which lays behind Tom on the floor where she had let it fall. In her exhaustion, she misses the glistening of wonder that passes across his face at the nonverbal display of magic before once more he sinks behind his mask.

“Do you need anything else?” She pants, feeling as if she has run a marathon.

“If I had come back,” he asks, and Florence notes that his voice is carefully neutral. “Would you have chosen me?”

“No… I don’t know,” she sighs. “You’re acting like my love for you and my love for Forsythe was a one-to-one, that they were the same.”

“Is not all love the same?”

Florence smiles as she leans against the wooden door, listening to the restless trampling of Dolon on the other side. How could he be so clinical about something like this, how had they reached this point in the conversation?

“Do you feel the same way about me that you felt about Lestrange? About any of your followers?”

“Of course not,” Tom scoffs as if she had said something preposterous.

“Then why would you assume that I used Forsythe to replace you? How could anyone replace you, Tom?” She asks, and her voice is serious. “Loving you was like getting hit with a meteor, I couldn’t avoid it even if I had tried, but we wasted it. We burned too fast and too bright, and in the end there was nothing left to save.”

“And For – your husband?” He asks, quickly dropping the name. His voice suggested that he was prepared to take notes on her answer, to hold an in depth study on love and its many faces.

“We chose it, we built it, we made it together,” Florence whispers, and her eyes flicker closed. “It wasn’t strong because it was inevitable, it was strong because we made it so.”

Silence falls again, and Florence’s hand itches to pull back the door bolt and slip onto Dolon’s back, to feel the wind across her face.

“Do you think you could ever love me again?” Tom asks, and the question makes her stomach balk, her face pale. She opens her eyes, staring at him as if seeing him for the first time – a twenty year old man who was brought back from an eternity of endless suffering against his will. Florence swallows, and then shrugs.

“I don’t know.”

Tom nods, the motion unfairly graceful for such a simple gesture.

“Do you still want the things you wanted before?” Florence asks after a moment, peering closer at him, searching for the lie he will utter. “Immortality? Power?”

“Yes,” Tom whispers, and she can see his throat bob as he swallows. She is unsure, but she thinks his face whitens slightly.

“Then you aren’t different, new soul or not.”

“I _am_ different,” he insists, and his voice is hollow and earnest, and suddenly his mask is ripped away, leaving only a desperate yearning upon his features.

“In what way? If you choose the same things again, you are the same.”

“Yes, I want those things,” Tom repeats, and is that a tremor she hears in his voice? Are his hands forming fists in his pockets? Florence blinks, trying to clear her mind. “But I choose you, Florence. Over any of it, all of it.”

Something inside of her is burning, her mind slowly expanding until the pressure on her skull is nearly unbearable. _I choose you_. _I want whatever it is you are. I will carve your name into time itself._ How desperately she’d wanted to hear those words when he’d stood before her, ring box in hand, his magic singing of murder. How long had she fantasized about exactly that while lying in bed beside him, while sitting before the portrait of Atalanta in the middle of the night wondering what had gone so horribly wrong. He’d given her so many beautiful words that haunted her over the years, and in the end they had all been dust in the wind – how was this any different?

“Then prove it,” she whispers, pulling back the bolt and stepping into the darkness of the stall, unable to bear the weight of his gaze for another minute longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you and all of your loved ones are safe!! Remember to drink water!


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean is this an alternate reality? I'm posting again and i'm as floored as you are.
> 
> After long last, we're getting back inside Tom's head. It was strange to return to his thoughts, it felt like putting on an old sweater and finding it was one size too small. Familiar...and yet...not. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy! Thank you for the outpouring of love on the latest series of updates. I am a broken record, but each day I am amazed anew by all the things you guys notice and say. I am the luckiest author!

**Chapter 54**

“’I feel terrible, like there's a weight on my chest.’

‘A heart's a heavy burden.’”

― Hayao Miyazaki, Howl’s Moving Castle

Tom sits in a wide leather chair before the fire, one leg crossed over the other, reveling in the warmth that washes over his skin. It was not until he had been remade that Tom realized exactly what his old body had lost, how little he’d been living at all, but now he thrills at the simplest of things, like a child in a candy shop. The welcome embrace of heat across his skin, the bitter joy of tea exploding upon his tongue, the first few flickering moments of wakefulness because he can _sleep_ now, he can actually rest his mind. Tom’s hands tighten around the armrests of the chair reflexively as another wave of the fire’s warmth permeates his body, and he smirks at nothing. At the abilities that his body now possesses that are so average, so human.

Tom settles slightly deeper into the chair, allowing his mind to stray to where it always did after he’d staggered from her gardens only a few weeks ago – he’s thought of little else. Tom has to fight the increase in his pulse as he remembers his first sight of Florence, standing on her back porch like his own personal savior, angelic and pure and _beautiful_ even now after all these years. He will never forget it, but then again, he’s never forgotten anything where Florence is concerned.

He hadn’t seen her in two days – not since their discussion? Argument? It was to be expected he supposed with how skittish she had been around him from the start, and at least she had given him things to think about. Tom could only read so many books to forget that Florence Allman was only a room away, and he didn’t like going for walks now any more than he had before his remaking.

Tom hadn’t wanted to talk to her about love, or at least that had not been his intention when he’d made the distasteful choice to seek her out in the barn. He’d only wanted to talk with her, to have the comforting weight of her chestnut gaze upon his, maybe to rile her into a state that was closer to the Florence of his memory. But like everything that had ever involved her, she had left him stumbling, adrift, caught up in her presence, and as a result drawn forth thoughts and questions he had never wanted to share.

 _Do you think you could ever love me again_ he’d asked her, and Tom winces at the foolishness of the question, the petulance there. How did she always manage to reduce him to his most base desires? Before him one of the logs in the fire _pops_ as if in mocking laughter at his neediness _,_ and he watches as sparks waft up the chimney and out of sight. Florence hadn’t said no, which in turn had breathed traitorous life into his new, pulsing heart, a flame that once lit, Tom found himself terrified he would never be able to quench. And yet, she had not said yes. What would happen to him if she never grew to love him, if she couldn’t forgive him for what he had said and done and the hundreds of ways he had hurt her?

And what had happened to him – to make him care to the point of pain? There was a constant weight between his ribs that he could not ever remember experiencing. _What would you know of having a functioning body_ Tom reminds himself. _It has been so long._ It infuriates him – the number of things he does not know – that after all his years of travel, all of the power that had at one point been at his fingertips, he could sit here like a newborn, constantly famished and furious at the world for the way it constantly changed. 

His eyes scan around the darkening room as he reaches for the half-consumed cup of tea beside him. Outside the window, the final vestiges of sunset were visible along the western horizon, the stars already arrayed in brilliant patterns across the sky. Here, far removed from Muggle and magical community alike, the sky was bright even at night with rarely seen constellations, and briefly Tom remembers stories Florence had once told him of the gods – how they had arrayed the most beautiful mortals in everlasting stars.

His perusal of the sitting room brings his gaze at last to the series of framed photographs beside him on the table. Tom cannot stop the rumble of displeasure that passes through him as he observes the myriad photos of a beaming Florence standing alongside the towering figure of Forsythe Blount. The pictures move in silent joy – bear-like embraces, easy smiles, heads thrown back in laughter, and although the two figures in the center of the frame seem never to age, Tom knows that the photos span over many decades from the variations in color and clothing. Tom has come to think of it as a shrine to his greatest rival, and more than once he’s found himself sitting next to it, forcing himself to look in the eye all that he had pushed away, what he had lost through his choices.

He wants to be furious with her the way she is furious with him – for moving on, for making any decision that did not prioritize him – but he cannot forget the expression on her face when she’d told him how she loved her late husband. Florence’s voice had been soft, almost as if she was speaking to a baby, tender and still and _gods_ he wanted that for himself, he had never been able to bear the thought of sharing her – he’d never known torture until he’d stood in that barn and been forced to listen as Florence _fucking_ Allman told him how deeply she had cared for Forsythe Blount, that Tom had no right to even speak the other man’s name. He wants to hate them both for what they shared together while his dreams came burning to the ground around him, but instead he remembers how Florence’s hair had gleamed with lightning, her face glistened with tears as she told him she was barren, that she’d watched her husband die, that he loathed herself for missing him – _Tom_ – over the years. 

It is this last note that confuses him the most, why she feels the need to fight the emotions that pertained to him. He’d awoken from his remaking, surging into knowing with equal parts fear and pain, and yet one look at Florence across the grass and he’d felt the same certainty he’d felt at eighteen – Tom would burn the world for her, he’d write her name in the stars and he’d launch a thousand ships if that was what it took. He’d give up those dreams of immortality and ultimate power that even now nagged at the back of his mind if that was required, if that was what she needed.

He tries not to think about how weak thoughts like these had once made him feel.

Tom is ripped from his constant musings by the sound of footsteps moving down the hall and the unmistakable voice of Florence Allman drawing closer. He stiffens slightly in his chair, opening his ears to hear her conversation with what can only be one of the house elves.

“I’m going to be baking a few pound cakes for Yule tomorrow, Cash,” she says, and her voice is growing louder, her footsteps closer. “Once I’ve got them wrapped, would you and June mind delivering them to Owen and Albion, oh and one for Luis and Tallulah as well?”

Tom manages to hear the elf’s squeaky affirmation, and then his gaze is filled with the bronzed skin of Florence Allman, the fluttering of caramel waves, and his chest constricts with the heaviness of her gaze which moves to his with such speed he idly wonders if it is a form of magnetism. Her footsteps falter and then halt, and Tom watches as a flush appears across her face despite its blank expression.

“Good evening, Florence,” he calls out before she can scamper away into one of her many bolt holes. He can feel it already, the electricity that races through his system at the mere sight of her, and something inside him tightens at the idea of her being near.

“Hello, Tom,” she murmurs, and Tom has to fight the frown that threatens at his lips because her voice is still too stiff around him – too formal. He wants to break every wall she’s built between the two of them over the past fifty years until she is once more putty in his hands.

“Would you care for tea?” He nods toward the tray on the table before him.

“I don’t drink it.”

“I can call for something else?” He suggests. Tom presses his jaw together, annoyed with small talk, hands itching to leap across the room to her, to press his lips to hers and discover if the same music will dance across their skin at the touch.

“I’m not thirsty,” she counters.

“Then sit down and talk to me,” Tom grinds out, his words a command instead of the question they had been in his mind. His gut tightens as he notices the barest flicker of her lip, the slightest hint at a smile, and the traitorous flame of hope in his chest leaps. Florence stares at him for a moment longer, and then at last she moves to seat herself on the chair across from Tom, tucking her legs beneath her. She is as he remembers, perhaps changed only in that her hair was a shade darker, her face bearing the smile lines around her mouth of a woman in her early thirties. Tom swallows, amazed by the secret he carries still – that it was his modified Dittany Concentrate that has wrought this slowing of time, as if somehow his past self had known what was to occur, saving her for _this._

Who was he to squander it?

“Who is Luis?” Tom asks after the silence has grown too long between them, Florence making no attempt to broach conversation. This time he is certain that she is smiling, his unintentional admission of eavesdropping turning upward the corners of her mouth.

“My nephew – Tallulah’s eldest son,” Florence explains before adding: “he runs the farm now. The Blount farm.”

“I see,” Tom murmurs, at last comprehending why she had been in her old home when he’d found her, not upon the estate of her late husband. Florence’s gaze turns to the fire, the smile fading from her lips. Tom feels a light pang within his chest at the loss of the expression.

“I couldn’t bear to be there, after everything,” Florence admits, resting her chin upon her hand. “I tried to run it, but it wasn’t the same, and I was never as good with azaleas as I was with Dittany.” Tom is surprised by the admission, recalling how once her face had burned red at even the slightest blow to her pride. _It has been decades_ he reminds himself, unable to stop his eyes from flickering to the gold band on her finger that makes his body shake with repressed rage. He wants to tear it from her skin and cast it into the depths of the ocean. _What else about her has changed_ he wonders. _What else have I missed?_

“So you did leave your farm in the end?” He asks. Tom cannot stop the rush of heat that moves through him, clenching his hand into a fist momentarily to relieve some of the anger. He’d ripped himself apart waiting for her and it still hadn’t been enough, but she’d been willing to move for _him_ – the pathetic farmer. Florence turns to look at him, and Tom weighs the pleasure of her gaze with the knowing look she gives him, that she can read him still, and that she loathes the thoughts that just passed through his mind.

“Of course I did,” she says calmly, her face so still Tom has the strange sense that they have traded places – Florence in control of her reactions while Tom leaves himself open to be seen.

“So you would give him that, but not me?”

“He gave up his dream of a family for me,” Florence counters. “We gave up things for each other.”

“The two of you were already married at that point, he gave up nothing. There was nothing he could have done.”

“He could have left,” Florence hisses, and he does not miss the accusation there. Tom leans forward almost imperceptibly, entranced by the stirring in his gut, the pulse of energy that he feels flowing between his own body and hers as they verbally spar. _She cannot deny this_ he thinks, a rush of savage pleasure moving through his form as he allows his eyes to follow the curve of her lips. To his frustration, Florence returns her gaze to the fireplace without so much as a flicker of recognition to the surging magic between them.

“You also gave up your own dream for a family,” Tom points out in what he thinks is a winning argument. To his fury, Florence shrugs.

“It wasn’t the same, I never had any great desire to have kids,” Florence tells Tom. “I would have done it for him, of course I would have, but I was more devastated by the failure of my own body, to have the choice ripped away from me.”

Tom has to look away, biting the inside of her lip to stop himself from saying that her body was _anything_ but a failure. He remembers how she danced before the fire of Samhain, how her body had floated through the air as she flew, the flush of her skin in bed, and Tom is certain that there has never been a human physique more remarkable.

They sit in silence for a moment, and Tom feels a bubble of anxiety bloom in his throat as his mind searches desperately for conversation, terrified that she might leave if he cannot distract her, lure her into remaining in his presence. Some part of his mind curses this new heaviness within his chest for revealing all of those things he had never needed before – human interaction, conversation, _touch_.

“Did you return to work on your family farm, after you left?” Tom asks at last.

“No,” Florence admits, and Tom who is watching her face like it is the surface of the ocean, changing with every moment, notes that her face flushes, a telltale sign of her embarrassment. “I did not have the…motivation.”

Tom remembers how hungry she had once been for magic, and the thought that she had willingly stepped away from the source of her power troubles him more than he cares to admit, even to himself. He looks at her, truly looks at her, willing himself not to see the woman he is desperate to pull into his grasp and never release, but Florence as she is.

There are lines around her eyes, a downturn of her brows that he had not seen before – details he is certain that no person would notice if they had not devoted themselves as he had to the study of her features. Her hair, as he’d already noted, is a shade darker – burnt caramel instead of laced with gold – but he suspects now it is a result of years spent indoors, not simply a fact of aging. Before he can complete his perusal, Florence turns to look at him, and her eyes are soft and tired and Tom loses every train of thought, trapped within her gaze like a bird in a cage.

“I saw your wandless magic,” he says without thinking, unable to look away, drinking in the sight of her as if she might vanish at any second. He says it as a statement, but Tom thinks it may have been intended as a compliment. “In the barn.”

Florence smiles at his comment and she is the sun.

“I’m surprised I haven’t found you doing any wandless magic, weaponless as you are,” Florence replies.

“I did not think I would be allowed too,” Tom says carefully, feeling his interest peak as the topic of magic is raised between them. He’d been careful not to attempt anything that might trigger wards – Florence had set up a perimeter, but he was sure there were other protections she had put in place. She might even have one of the house elves following him at all times for all Tom knew, although he’d never caught either of them watching him. His suspicions, of course, hadn’t stopped him from performing simple magics in his quarters to clean his singular set of clothes or summon books from across the room, but he had kept it painfully simple. The thought of using his abilities for something greater left him panting.

“Oh, asking permission now, are you?” Florence asks, and her smile widens, revealing a perfect set of teeth.

“Of course not,” Tom scoffs, sitting back in his chair, crossing and re-crossing his legs. “But if you have wards set up to deter me, I would rather not test your defenses. I am newly _alive._ ”

“As if I could stop you from doing magic,” Florence says, and now she is scoffing at him. Tom feels himself preening at her words, pleased that she believes him capable, remembers him how he had been with magic humming in his veins. She is right, of course, but the new heaviness within his chest tells him to tread carefully still, not to push her away.

“You did once,” Tom muses, recalling the storm she had summoned that day to quench his own fires, the power that had radiated off her in near seismic waves.

The words have hardly left his mouth before he regrets them, whatever openness Florence had melted into over the course of their conversation vanishing in an instant behind a look that could melt steel. Fury passes through Tom again, that she is the same and yet so changed, leaving him floundering at her feet, that she sits upon the other side of the room out of reach, that the fucking _ache_ in his chest has still yet to cease.

“I wouldn’t call that a victory,” Florence murmurs, getting to her feet. Tom watches, his hands clenching around the chair as she moves to leave, her face hidden to him behind a curtain of burnt caramel hair. In a moment she is gone, and Tom sinks back in his seat, no longer aware of the fire’s warmth or the pleasant sensation of a full stomach, comprehending only that Florence Allman had looked at him, and he had managed yet again to drive her away.

.

.

.

He doesn’t even pretend that it is a happenstance meeting when he walks into the kitchen the next day to watch Florence bake her Yuletide gifts. He had tossed and turned restlessly throughout the night, and awoken with a hunger in his stomach that only the sight of her could satisfy – like an addict chasing a perpetual high that lived somewhere in her smile, in the coffee that lingered on her skin.

Florence ignores him as he takes a seat on one of the stools in the corner, watching with rapt attention as she measures obscene amounts of flour, sugar, and butter, adding them into a large mixing bowl. June brings him a platter of tea and Southern style biscuits, the bread lathered generously with honey and raspberry jam. Tom eats like a man starved, gulping down the water he’d been served and moving through the pot of tea as if it was air, all the while his eyes trained upon Florence and the deft, sure motions of her hands.

“So you learned how to cook,” he states at last when the sight of her is no longer enough to satisfy the still aching need that burns in his gut. He wants her voice, her attention too – Tom has always been greedy.

“No, only to bake a handful of things. Forsythe’s mom had an old family pound cake recipe that she taught me,” Florence responds evenly, her face screwed up in concentration as she stirs the enormous bowl of ingredients. Tom wants to ask her to bake him something, the thought of eating anything she had made making him positively lightheaded with desire.

“It seems it is a good thing then you still have June and Cash to keep you fed,” Tom murmurs at last, thinking again of his secret, of the command the two house elves had been following throughout the years.

“Even if I could cook, June would never relinquish control of the kitchen,” Florence says with a fond smile towards the tottering house elf who is busy preparing Tom another pot of tea. “She can be quite single-minded.”

“I cannot fathom where she could possibly have learned it,” Tom says with a smirk, at last drawing a look from Florence, a slight flush moving across her cheeks. Energy burns through him at the sight of it.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do with me?” Tom asks as Florence reaches for a carton of eggs.

“Do with you?” She asks, her tone brittle enough to shatter glass. He observes as she cracks the eggs into a smaller bowl, checking for broken fragments of shell before pouring the final ingredient into the bowl of dry components.

“Are you planning on turning me over to the authorities?”

“And be accused of necromancy?” Florence ridicules, pinning him with a glare that would have made her mother proud back in the day. Tom does not flinch beneath the withering look, determined to force conversation if only to keep himself sane. “Illini is gone as is our tree – I have no discernable evidence to validate any of the magical claims that you have made, and I don’t fancy being accused of harboring mass murderers.”

Florence’s voice is detached as she explains her rational, yet Tom hears none of it, his mind still reeling over her phrasing of _our tree_ , that it had been something they shared no matter what had become of the two of them. _How could anyone replace you_ she’d asked him in the barn, and Tom wonders again how she can possibly fight the stirring of magic between them that makes Tom feel drunk and burning and desperate all at once.

“And,” she adds, pulling several round pans with holes in the center from the cabinet beside her. “I cannot imagine your testimony would count for much in court, considering you once attempted to bring down the British Ministry.”

“So I’m to remain your prisoner?”

“Do I treat you like a prisoner?” Florence asks, and her mixing stops as she turns to fix him with another stare. Her face is open, eyes wider than they have been all morning, and her arm shakes slightly as she reaches for her mug of coffee. Tom’s smirk broadens.

“I’ve been given a singular pair of clothes, I live in a home I cannot leave through magical or Muggle means, and you have made no attempt to replace my wand – an action I can only assume you have done out of your own self-defense as my warden,” Tom rattles off, his smirk growing with each item. “Understandable, of course, but unnecessary considering we both know I do not require a wand to perform spells.”

“Do you honestly believe I should just let you wander free?” She asks, ignoring completely his accusations.

“It would not matter if you did, where else would I go?” Tom asks, and he has to grip the edge of his stool in order to still the increase in his pulse, to reign in the magic that is practically tearing at his skin from her proximity.

“Anywhere, everywhere,” Florence replies, her umber eyes fixated upon his with such an intensity that Tom wonders in the back of his mind if looks can puncture skin, draw blood. “I’m sure even you have places you never managed to go, magics you were incapable of mastering.”

“It doesn’t matter, Florence,” Tom repeats, and his next words slide from his lips before he can stop them, desperate to escape his lungs, to be shared with her. “You are here, there is no place else for me.”

It is the truth – the only truth Tom knows. He can feel the certainty of it rattling in the cavern in his chest, the hole that Florence Allman had formed within him that in his second iteration at life has grown only deeper, more insatiable, frenzied and frantic. He will chase her to the ends of the Earth this time if that is what it takes. He’d had immortality, and he’d died wondering what it was all for, but he wouldn’t make that mistake again. He was too smart, too brilliant to blunder in the same way.

Before him Florence’s face remains still, but after a moment, as if the words had needed an instant to sink in, her face glows with a rosy hue that makes everything inside of Tom tense. _She’s beautiful_ he knows, and something gnaws at the inside of his stomach that she could be so and yet not be his.

Florence finishes her baking in silence, Tom watching from the corner as she places the pans in the oven and sets about charming the dishes to wash themselves. It is a simple spell, but it makes Tom smile at nothing to remember how once something so menial would have stumped her completely, enraging her to the point of emitting red sparks from the end of her wand.

It is sometime in the afternoon that he returns to the kitchens to request a bowl of the beef stew that June had made the day before when he spots a small, almost miniature version of the larger cakes Florence had baked for her family resting upon the countertop. It has been plated and dusted with a sprinkling of powdered sugar, and before it rests a small slip of paper, upon it only a singular word.

_Tom_

The cake is delicious – he considers eating the entire thing in one sitting, but he restrains himself, determined to spread it over as many days as possible. But even with this decision made, Tom licks his fork clean, collecting the crumbs with his fingers as he once had when he was a child in Wool’s orphanage. He keeps the slip of paper with his name, tucking it between the pages of his book so that he may admire her script with every flip of the page.

.

.

.

Florence does not run away from him when he joins her in the library the next day, her location known to him courtesy of the renewed tracking charm he’s placed upon her. Some habits, it seems, die harder than others – but he will not begrudge himself the comfort that the nagging line of magic informing him of Florence’s local at all times provides him, a reminder that in a world that is entirely new to him, this one thing remains. _She_ remains.

Florence makes no effort to stop him from joining her in the mornings when she sips coffee out on the back porch, shivering under a light jacket in the freezing winter air, small clouds of steam trickling from her mouth. It is a sight Tom finds so uniquely arousing that he must excuse himself before he has even finished his pot of tea, running to his bathroom for a cold shower like a pubescent boy, terrified by the workings of his body, incapable of feeling anything else but desire for her.

Some days they talk, others they sit in silence, taking turns to stare at each other intermittently in a new game between them. Sometimes she wins, smirking as she looks up from a book to see his eyes upon hers, knowing that his mouth has fallen partially open at some point as he drinks in the sight of her. Other times Tom is the victor, lips peeling back in a feral smile as he glances out of the corner of his eye to see her gaze locked upon his figure. The resulting flush that spread across Florence’s face is better than anything he ever achieved as Lord Voldemort he realizes, and not for the first or last time he curses his foolishness, for squandering what could have been between them.

As the days pass, it grows harder to physically distance himself from her, certain as he is that magic still binds them. _How can she bear it_ Tom wonders at night as he tosses and turns, arms desperate for the feel of her inside them. He remembers what it had been without her, eight – _eight_ – mangled pieces of soul crying out for her, crying out to the remade version of himself to take her, to hold her as they never could.

But Florence does not try to bridge any gap between them, even if she does not flee upon the sight of him anymore. She selects chairs where he cannot even dream of brushing against her, careful at all times to maintain a distance that he cannot breach, like a moat of air between them – Florence the impenetrable castle, Tom the invading army. He wants to resent her for it, for her strength in resisting him in the face of his own desperate need, but Tom being the addict he is, he will take what fix he can get, even if it is only to share a room with her.

He flounders for a way to break the barriers between them, stumbling through stilted conversations that most often devolve into impassioned staring, trailing after her like a whipped dog when she goes to ride in the barn so that he can watch from the stands, leaving books out upon tables in precise locations that he hopes she may happen upon later. Once or twice he finds the texts have been shifted by some hand that is not his own, and everything inside of him leaps at the thought that her hand may have brushed it, her mind bent towards something he’d chosen for her. Rarely does Florence incite conversation, content to listen, to make small talk that he detests. The weight within his chest that is like a lump of iron tells him with some newfound intuition that his presence is harder to accept for her, that while for him it is a second chance, for her it is a reminder of all that she’d lost.

The differences in their mental states is thrown into sharp relief every time he happens upon her in a private moment. The first is after a dinner of something called chicken and dumplings when Tom discovers a teary eyed Florence upon the back step, her gaze riveted upon the sky as if answers might be written in the stars.

“That was his favorite dinner,” Florence had told Tom in a rare moment of honesty. He hadn’t needed to ask who she was referring too. “June keeps forgetting he’s not here anymore.”

And then there had been the evening where he’d entered the main parlor to find her staring at the shrine to her late husband, umber eyes again brimming over with tears that, if possible, only made her more beautiful. Tom had left the room in a hurry, desperate to escape the look she’d given him that had asked the unanswerable – _why you, why not him?_ Tom doesn’t have an answer, and he’s not sure he wants one.

He doesn’t want to acknowledge this: that some part of her lived inside another, that there is a part of her he can never have, that fucking _Forsythe Blount_ had been able to stir those emotions he had wanted to monopolize within Florence. That on some level, it is his fault he’d had the opportunity too in the first place.

But at all times he remembers her challenge, the words that have been branded into his skin: _Prove it_. Tom gnashes his teeth and pulls at his hair, blasting pinecones in the snow with wandless stunning spells to expel energy. He has no idea how to prove anything to her except to try again for menial conversation that makes his head spin in circles, to follow her around like a second shadow and hope that one day she might look at him as if her world began and ended with him.

.

.

.

Over a month has passed since the four of them had arrived at the Lodge, and the sight of the black slacks and white undershirt he’d been remade in make Tom want to gag with frustration. He’s cleaned them magically every night, and yet the idea of pulling on the same set of clothing for what feels like the millionth time makes his skin crawl. He’d asked June for additional garments, but the not-altogether-there house elf had only brought him a few extra pairs of socks and Florence’s warning on behalf of her elf companions had left him to stew in silent frustration at this turn of events.

It is on a particularly cold afternoon that Tom decides he has had enough, and he sets off down the hall to the bedroom he knows Albion once occupied on his visits to the Lodge, curious to see if any old clothes still remain. The room is spotless despite its ill use, a sign that the house elves are meticulous in their cleaning despite their age, and he moves across the dustless floor to the wardrobe with purpose filled strides. The wood is like ice beneath his bare feet.

Something akin to ecstasy passes through him when he pulls open the wardrobe door to find an entire rack of men’s clothing. It’s all there, the stiff, denim jeans, lightweight button down shirts stained from sweat around the collar, and even an old hunting jacket. The clothing smells faintly sweet as he tugs them from their hangers, ripping his old clothes from his body and stepping into the new with a deep-boned sense of relief. They are far too broad for his narrow figure, but with a mere pulse of his magic he transfigures them, content to have a different material pressing against his skin. The last thing Tom takes from the rack is the jacket before he snaps his fingers and his previous garments fold themselves, floating into his hands where he will drop them off in his room.

The sky is still early through the windows as Tom makes his way down the main stairwell, his mind at once distracted from the view of snow covered fields by the flicker of movement at the base of the stairs. Florence is staring at him, her eyes wide as she takes in his new raiment. Tom smiles at her, self-assured and pleased as he recalls how once pants such as these had reduced her to a simpering, fantasizing mess for him.

“Where did you get those clothes,” she asks, and Tom feels his smile falter at the harshness in her voice, each word like the crack of a whip.

“Albion’s old quarters,” Tom explains in what he hopes is placating tone. They’d spent nearly the entire day yesterday in the library in companionable silence, yet he feels at once as if he is walking upon ice floats. One wrong step would send him into the frigid depths below.

“Who told you that you could take them? Was it June? Cash?” Florence hisses, and if possible her eyes are wider, her face reddening by the second. Tom stops at the bottom of the stairs, his mind whirling to keep up with the woman before him. He raises both arms before him in what he hopes is a pacifying gesture, but this seems only to incense her further. “ _Who, Tom.”_

“No one, Florence, I found them –”

But whatever else he had intended to say is drowned by an enraged scream.

“ _Take them off! Take them of RIGHT NOW!”_ Her chest is heaving, eyes bugging from her head, and at once he can feel the stirrings of her magic in the air, the very element that they breathe reacting to the undeniable rage cased within her. Tom remains frozen as her magic tears at him, flinching beneath what feels like the attack of a thousand nails upon his skin.

“ _I said take them off, Tom,”_ Florence repeats again, and if possible her voice is even more shrill, her face even more wild.

“Florence, what—”

“Christ, _TAKE THEM OFF!”_ She howls, and then she lunges, moving with such speed that it is a miracle Florence manages to stop herself in time. She stands before him quivering, her hands opening and closing around open air, entire body trembling as if lost out at sea. He can tell she wants to rip the clothes from his body, but a flash of revulsion crosses her features seemingly at the idea of touching him, and Tom swallows. Up close he can see her face, and there in the dilation of her pupils, living between each panicked breath, is fear.

Unsure what else to do Tom pulls the jacket from his shoulders, setting it on the ground between them, pulling the shirt over his head and stepping out of the pants until he stands in nothing more than his boxers. He moves back, up two stairs so that there is distance between them, and he watches as she crumbles to the ground, burying her face in the clothes at her feet. It is several moments before Tom realizes that her magic has stopped attacking him, and several more before he realizes that Florence is sobbing into the shirt like nothing more than a despondent child. 

“They’re Forsythe’s,” she moans, and he hears the distinct sound of her inhaling followed by a redoubling of her tears when he assumes she finds the smell that had lingered upon them is replaced by his own. “I had June remove them from my closet when we arrived.”

Tom does not say anything, trapped between anger and guilt, resentful of the first emotion, nauseated by the second. He watches her shake on the floor for several moments more, and then he turns and moves to go back up the stairs, to put on once more the clothes he despises more than any other item in the home. He has nearly disappeared down the hall when he hears her voice from below, low and soft and yet unmistakable in its coldness.

“Do not go in there again, Tom.”

.

.

.

It is three days later that Tom opens the door to his room to find a large package wrapped in green paper, a silver ribbon encircling it. Tom feels a prickle of excitement move down his spine as he recognizes the handwriting upon the card, and without hesitation he reaches for it, peeling back the envelope with something nearing reverence. The cardstock is thick between his fingers, and the handwriting is like a familiar face from the past. His mind reels as he realizes that the letter is made of multiple pieces of parchment, and leaning against the doorframe, he sets to reading.

_Tom,_

_Rarely in my unnaturally long life have I found myself at a loss for words, but ever since the death of my husband, I have found my life lacking in purpose, my voice strangely silent. Your return to me has only rendered me further speechless, highlighted to a greater extent the listlessness that has consumed me over the past few years because I cannot help but remember the person I used to be once upon a dream when we first met, and I find that it is hardest to speak to you of all people – you, who at one time I felt I could share anything – because I cannot understand the magic that brought you too me, nor what steps in my life I am to take next now that you are here._

_I have not been overly gracious toward you this past month and a half, and while I will not apologize for it, I will say that it is simply because you stir within me feelings I have never been able to comprehend. You move mountains inside me, Tom, and I think somewhere along the way you carved valleys within me too. Illini told me that you touched my spirit – I wished for it not to be so, I resented the choices you’d made, the ways that you had hurt me – but even I cannot deny the effect your presence has had upon me these past weeks, the simple magic of your manifestation waking me from a years’ long slumber. It has been a long time since I baked a cake or finished a book, and I suspect that I have you to thank for this newfound energy._

_I will likewise not apologize for my actions regarding Forsythe’s clothing. I know you detest on every level the choices I made after we parted concerning my late husband, but you must learn to accept that some part of me will always love him, belong to him even, just as I will have to accept that some part of my heart has always belonged to you, that you are irreplaceable within my life despite the myriad ways we were torn apart._

_Magic has crafted your soul for mine, we were always meant to be as one. Do you remember saying this to me? I do, despite admittedly attempting to forget. You were right, of course you were, and for years I hated you for it. Sometimes I still hate you for it, but it doesn’t change the truth._

_But whether our souls are one or not is still secondary to this truth: love – destined or not – is only what one makes of it. We made nothing of it in the past, we burned it and fed it to the dogs, and I am nervous – no terrified – of making the same mistake again. Despite my young appearance, I have suffered more love related heartache in my life than I would wish upon my greatest enemy, and you, Tom, even after everything you became, are not my greatest enemy._

_I tell you all of this only to ask this in return, please have patience with me. Once you told me that you were not patient, not where I was concerned (you see, I remember this too), but if you will give me time, you’re welcome to stay with me for as long as you like. I cannot give you more than that at this time, and while I am warry still to be close to you, please do not mistake my distance as a sign that I do not feel the strange pulling at my magic that only you could ever arouse. You have reminded me what it is to be alive, and that alone is a gift I can never repay._

_I remember it all Tom – the good and the bad – and it leaves me feeling as if I am stranded in the middle of the ocean staring down the barrel of my telescope at you, attempting to determine if you are my making or my undoing._

_I have always liked the way you say my name, Tom. Please do not stop saying it._

_Yours,_

_Florence_

_P.S. You will not know what day it is having no awareness of the date upon which you re-entered this world, but I have not forgotten. Not now, and not ever._

_Happy Birthday._

He reads the letter once, twice, then a third and fourth time. Every word he cherishes, each line he picks apart until he knows he could recite the entire thing by heart. The monster in his chest roars for her, and he can feel himself shaking, terrified by the weight of her words upon him, buoyed by the light cast upon the dark places of his mind. He stands in the doorway for some time, staring at the letter, a strange thickness in his throat that he can never recall feeling until at last he remembers the package that rests at his feet.

The box is massive, and he has to levitate it into his room because it is too heavy to lift. He tears at the paper like a man possessed, smiling at the color selection despite of himself. It is a detail only Florence would remember, and the place within his chest where she lives sings louder still. At last the wrappings are gone and he peels back the lid of a chest to find stack upon stack of clothes – an entirely new wardrobe. Shirts and slacks and jeans and multiple sets of fine wizards robes and even a pair of winter boots for marches through the snow.

And yet it all pales to the item he finds on the top, the odd stickiness returning to his throat that momentarily ceases his breathing. He reaches for it, cradling it the way he’d once cradled a locket, a dairy, and other now useless trinkets.

It is Florence’s childhood copy of the _Iliad_ , and upon it is a note that simply reads:

_Perhaps we could finish it together this time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah this chapter was so hard. Writing Tom who is both the same but also has a ~conscience~ now is freaking hard. Like he'd still rip someones fucking head off, but he'd feel bad about it??????? He'd rip their head off...but for Florence????? Idk, not sure if I'm pleased with this chapter entirely but it was important for us to check in with him:) Also i kind of like the idea of Tom's desires not changing, only the order of them. Like - he wants power and immortality still - but before where Florence was third on the list, she's been bumped up to #1 baby!!!
> 
> Stay safe! Drink water! If you are somewhere where you can get vaccinated already, please do so! Call your friends/loved ones! Take care of yourself - we are almost out of 2020, and if someone hasn't told you they are proud of you for making it through this year, please know that I am!!!! :)


	55. Chapter 55

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so there may be a lot of grammatical errors in this chapter, I'm not really sure. I've just been writing frantically and posting now since we're drawing closer to the end, and I just want to get things out cause I'm so excited about them!!!! Also this may be my longest chapter ever???
> 
> THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT!!!!!! You people are dazzling<3

**Chapter 55**

“It is easier to be in love in a room with closed doors. To have the whole world in one room. One person. The universe condensed and intensified and burning, bright and alive and electric.”   
― Erin Morgenstern, The Starless Sea

Florence paces in front of the fireplace, painfully aware of the newspaper that she has folded and shoved into her rear pocket that pokes into her back with every other step, a reminder of the conversation she is looking to incite whenever Tom decides to grace her with his near-constant presence. It is nearing nine o’clock in the morning, over an hour later that the typical time in which Tom’s towering figure first appears in the kitchen, midnight eyes seeking hers in the morning light with something nearing religious fervor. Florence had been unnerved by the certainty of his pursuit, the single-mindedness with which he had taken to following her around the Lodge and surrounding property, and she is further unnerved still by her choice to encourage it – sending an olive branch that transitioned him in her regard from an abnormality of magic to something in which she was inextricably intertwined.

Florence glances at the clock again, wondering if the letter was too much, terrified by her own heart, the way it moved and shuddered.

She is so lost in her thoughts that she does not hear the telltale creak of the stairs nor the gentle tread of shoes upon the hardwood floor. All she knows is that one moment she is debating apparating to the barn to blow off steam, and the next he is there, divinity incarnate in a simple white button down and tailored black dress pants, pressed as if he is preparing to enter a law office and not accompany her to breakfast in the kitchen. Florence’s mouth goes dry, unable to stop the spasms within her chest nor the way her gaze immediately zeros in on the tringle of skin revealed along his collar, the hollow of his throat that she indescribably wants to drag her tongue across. His gaze is a sin, and she feels herself flush beneath the weight of it upon her.

“Happy Birthday, Tom,” Florence whispers after a moment, desire and nerves battling with her mind to the point that she thinks she may faint. To make matters worse, Tom smiles at her words – brilliant and blinding and Florence has the uncanny urge to savor it, to lock the sight away somewhere within her mind like a hatchling that needed protecting. For a brief moment, she is seventeen years old and her heart sings as if he has just complimented her upon a summoning charm, but then the moment passes and she is once more herself, Tom the same and yet _changed._

“Would you like to start now?” Tom asks, lifting from behind his back her battered copy of the _Iliad_ , the text small within his long-fingered grasp. His thumb brushes across the cover, and Florence blushes at his eagerness, at the ravenous appetite he has for her despite the distance she has created. A small part of her wants to laugh, that even now with a new soul, saying thank you seemed not to be a high priority for one so self-important as Tom Riddle.

“Breakfast,” she manages to choke, and Tom smirks, a reminder that his confidence had remained unflinching even in a new body, with a new soul. Florence follows after him, unable to tear her eyes away from the clean line he cuts, cursing her own generosity as heat pooled in her stomach. Tom holds the door open for her, his smirk only increasing as he took in the redness of her cheeks, the telltale shaking in her hands.

Tom seats himself, immediately reaching for the tea-tray as Florence shuffles beside him, hovering off his left shoulder like an errant poltergeist. Her hand closes around the newspaper, and with a quick, calming breath, she pulls it from her pocket, unfolding it and laying it before Tom upon the table. His eyes make quick work of the title before he turns to stare at Florence, the nearly imperceptible ring of pastel blue around his pupils apparent to her for the first time since she first beheld him, pale and yet vivid as a noonday sky. The sight of it leaves her staggering.

“You saved this?” Tom asks, his gaze flickering between the yellowed page that read _Lord Voldemort’s Reign of Terror at an End! How Wizarding Boy Hero Harry Potter Saved a Civilization,_ and her _._ Florence takes her seat across from him, reaching for the coffee and cream.

“I had to remind myself that you dead every once and a while,” Florence admits, the coffee scalding its way down her throat. To her chagrin, Tom’s smirk returns.

“Dreaming of me?”

“Nightmares, actually.”

“So why are you showing me this,” Tom asks, casting the paper a look of mixed curiosity and distaste, as if he was trying to decide whether or not to read the article or burn it to ash. She can feel his magic as it permeates the room, the shudder that passes through it as he again glances down at the title.

“I want to know,” Florence blurts out, and then she flushes, tearing her gaze away from the corner of his jaw to glance out the window. “I want to know what became of you.”

It was a decision that had gone in tandem with her decision to clothe him – to see him as human. She could no longer deny to herself the reawakening of those feelings that had plagued her during their time together, but if she was to remember those things, she would have to also understand what he had become. Florence would hear it from his mouth, and draw her own conclusions on whether or not he was changed.

“You’ve already read about it, it seems,” Tom murmurs, and there is a line of accusation there, a steel blade he slides between his words that once he would have intended to maim. Florence frowns, but does not give him the gift of her gaze.

“I want it from you, Tom,” Florence counters, his name like a heavy stone dropping into water. “I want to know what you became, what happened to you. We can’t keep pretending as if the years between us did not occur, and we cannot recreate the past.”

Tom frowns, his eyes red for only the briefest of moments – as if the insinuation that time itself was beyond the domain of his control had been intended as an insult. _In some ways, he’s already mastered time_ Florence thinks with a private smile, but she does not feel the need to tell Tom this. His ego was one of the things that had been unimpacted by his remaking.

“You will not like what you hear,” he thunders.

“I don’t like what I already know. What you say cannot change that.”

“It could drive you away,” Tom murmurs, and his head tilts slightly to the side, his eyes narrowing. Florence’s mouth goes dry, unhinged by the honesty.

“How can you be so certain that I am what you want?” She demands. “You said yourself that you still want power.”

“Because I died with your laughter echoing in my head,” Tom admits with such ease that Florence’s stomach clenches and the bite of eggs in her mouth turns bitter. “Because when I was remade my first thought was of you, remade for the _sake_ of you.” Florence grips the armrests of her chair, wishing suddenly the table was ten feet longer, that she could escape the burning of his gaze. “Because I ripped my own fucking soul into eight pieces, and when Illini put them back together I finally remembered what it had been to be without you. That having immortality and power had been inconsequential in the end.”

_Inconsequential._

The word had been a part of Florence since his first use of it at Slughorn’s party, a besotted and obsessive seventeen year old who had been forced to watch as his beauty gave way to horror. He’d meant it for muggleborns then – he intended it for a life without her now. The change left her mind swimming as if falling through empty space.

“I still want to know,” Florence says at last, incapable of responding to his prior comments.

“Then I want something in return,” Tom states, and Florence cannot stop herself from smiling at this, at the challenge that sparks fire between them.

“I’ve been more than generous with you,” Florence points out, and she has, whether he wants to imagine himself a prisoner or not. She’s clothed him, fed him, admitted to him that some portion of her heart awoke beating in sync with his the day he’d been remade. It is more than any man who committed genocide could expect to receive, and yet she’d given it. _Perhaps I am the mad one_.

“I want to know about Forsythe.”

“Why,” Florence demands, the warmth fading from her body at once like a drain pulled somewhere at the base of her spine. She looks at him then, searching the planes of his face for any hidden meaning, but is met only with a trademark blank expression. Tom has made no effort to hide his distaste for the other man, and Florence is loath to share stories with someone who intends only to fuel their own hatred.

“I want to know what you became,” Tom declares, repeating her words. His voice is steady, each word carefully weighed.

“I won’t have you mocking him, Tom.”

“Illini once told me loving is giving,” Tom murmurs, and his face is like marble, cut and still and inherently divine. Florence feels herself pale, fury surging in her that he would dare mention Illini – that he would speak of love as if he had finally discovered its secrets. “Give me this – _please_ – and I’ll give you any information you wish to know about me.”

“You haven’t asked for a gift, you’ve asked for a trade,” Florence accuses.

“A compromise?”

Florence cannot stop the laugh that peels from her chest, and from the corner of her eye she notices the corner of his mouth turn up in a smile.

“Did that word burn your tongue on its way out?” Florence asks, pressing her palms into her chest in an attempt to get her breathing under control. It is a futile attempt, her eyes stinging with withheld tears.

“Just trying it out,” he murmurs coolly, but his face is alive as he stares at her, his eyes devouring every toss of her head until Florence has the ability to regain control of her lungs. She ignores the flash in his eyes.

“Fine, we’ll trade,” Florence agrees on a whim, feeling a bolt of energy surge down her arms and legs as her magic pulses through her, almost as if her spirit was happy to be sharing something with the man across the table. Perhaps it would be good for him – to hear of a man who’d been good from the start, who hadn’t needed a second life to resemble something human. Tom’s responding smile is luminescent. “But if I ask you about something directly, you have to tell me the whole truth. No leaving out details.”

“Alright,” he agrees with such ease that Florence’s eyes narrow, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It doesn’t, the rest of the meal spent in tolerable silence as Tom flips through the newspaper regarding his own death and Florence tries not to watch him do so. He is impassive, features carefully schooled, and yet she can tell by the blur of his pupils that he is moving through the article with electrifying speed. _What would a boy who dreamed of immortality think of reading of his death?_ She supposes it must be less jarring considered his death was in the past tense. _Just any old day to him_ Florence thinks wildly, stirring her grits and adding a handful of shredded cheese. The thought makes her smile, and before she knows it she’s laughing. Laughing at the mystery of the situation, at the man seated across from her, and at herself for somehow being in the middle of it, like a pinwheel caught in a breeze, endlessly circling. That death could be a part of Tom Riddle’s past – _Tom_ , who had destroyed the world for the sake of immortality, and that at the cost of his own life, in some perverse way, had succeeded in the end. Florence laughs until she cries, leaning back in her chair and clutching her sides.

She does not see Tom watching her, the softness in his eyes that had only ever lived there for her, the way his skin reddens with the faintest blush, that he moves slightly forward in his chair as if for the simple sake of being nearer.

.

.

.

He spares her no details, seated across from one another before a roaring fire, Florence swathed in blankets, Tom in a suit, their eyes locked in a battle somewhere in the field between their bodies as they take turns questioning each other. Tom’s voice is low, rumbling, like the first ripples of thunder on a clear summer’s day. He is direct, succinct, responding to Florence’s queries with as few words as possible while still managing to tell her more than she could have ever wished to know. She’d eaten lightly at dinner, but she can feel her stomach swoop and drop as he describes the countless deaths, the tortures he’d invented, the thing’s he’d deemed necessary.

“I had an army of them,” he tells her slowly, reaching for his post-meal cup of chamomile without blinking. Florence pulls the blanket around her shoulders tighter, fighting off the shivers she cannot escape.

“Of dead bodies?”

“They are called inferi – I discovered the practice while traveling through Eastern Germany.”

“How large of an army?” Florence asks, and she cannot stop the shaking in her voice, the nausea that is slowly creeping its way up her throat and making her head spin.

“Several hundred at least,” Tom says before taking a sip of his tea. “Of course, many of them we’re as a result of my Death Eater’s actions, but I was the sole re-animator, and I alone had full control over them.”

Florence cannot contain her sickness. Throwing off the blankets she sprints to the bathroom, only just placing her head above the toilet before her dinner resurfaces. Florence heaves, her nose burning and eyes streaming as she tries to think of anything besides a writhing mass of pale, reanimated corpses. It is magic as it should never be, ghastly and broken and Florence remembers the way Tom’s own enchantment had rang of impurities the day he’d burned her fields to the ground. The thought brings forth another surge of vomiting.

There are gentle steps behind her and a low voice calling out a name, and then Cash is there, wiping at her brow with a damp towel and cleaning off her mouth. Florence seats herself on the tile floor, leaning against the wall to find that Tom is standing in the hallway staring down at her, his midnight eyes focused upon her with such an intensity that she almost freezes.

“I think that is enough for tonight,” he states calmly, and in her current lightheaded condition, Florence smiles at the underlying command in his voice.

“Perhaps a break,” she counters, turning to smile and pat a doting Cash on the head. Tom makes no motion to move closer or assist in her care, and for that Florence is thankful. She does not think touching him would be a good idea, and especially not now.

It is a few moments later that they return to the sitting room. Florence moves to swaddle herself once more in the thick, knit blankets while Tom busies himself before the tea-tray. She watches his back through drooping eyelids, lazily tracing the curls at the base of his neck, the deft movements of his arms as he conjures from thin air another cup and saucer. Florence flushes against her better judgement, painfully aware of how miraculous his magic is even without a wand. Her blush only intensifies when he turns and crosses the space in two commanding steps, offering her the cup and saucer with a look that brokered no questions.

“Thank you,” she says, taking it from him and letting it rest upon her lap. Tom smirks and then retakes his seat, his eyes like molten gunmetal as he watches her lift the cup to her lips. The tea is floral and earthy with just the right amount of cream, washing away the lingering taste of bile across her tongue until at last the burning in her throat ceases. Tom’s look of pleasure is sinful.

“Did Forsythe drink tea?” Tom asks out of the blue, one leg crossing over the other. She returns her cup to its saucer with a _clink_ before meeting his gaze once more.

“He preferred coffee, but then again, I would say that most Americans do.”

“And yet you keep no less than six strains of tea in your cupboard,” Tom points out, and his eyes flash with indulgence, his smirk smug and self-contained. Florence’s eyes narrow, but it does nothing to offset the redness that melts across her cheeks.

“June seemed to hope that one day you would make an appearance,” Florence hisses. “I threw all of the tea in my home into the river if you must know.”

“How _patriotic_ of you,” Tom replies, and Florence cannot stop the leaping in her heart at the innuendo any more that she can stop her mouth from falling open.

“Been studying?”

“I must do something during the hours your refuse to speak with me – are you impressed by my thoroughness?”

“I’m always impressed by you.”

The words slide from her mouth before she can stop them. Horrified, Florence claps a hand to her mouth, adrenaline pulsing through her system with such precipitous speed that for a brief moment she wonders if she will throw up again, but the urge passes. Across the room, Tom’s porcelain skin turns pink, features unflinching in the firelight as he observes her.

“You can transfigure things out of thin air, even without a wand,” Florence mutters when her breathing has begun once more, holding up her cup and saucer up in some form of paltry excuse for the words she can never take back. “And though the things you did while we were apart disgust me on every level, it is undeniable that only you could have ever accomplished them.”

Tom is silent, regarding her with a face so still she wonders if he has heard her at all. Florence presses a palm to her forehead, feeling shaky and nauseous and ill once more. _He created an army of the dead, and yet you think he is miraculous_. The truth of the words was so sour that Florence gulped down another mouthful of tea, desperate to eliminate the taste upon her tongue. In her chest, the aching place that had been filled by her very first sight of him seems to sigh, aware that Florence’s mind was losing a battle against her own body – her own magic. _You spent too long in isolation_ she reasons with herself, but another nagging voice tells her that isolation has nothing to do with the ease in which she’s gotten out of bed the past month, her sudden desire to ride and read and breathe the fresh air. And her isolation certainly didn’t not change the fact Tom Riddle was beautiful, like the rarest of diamonds, and he’d claimed to choose her. It was enough to make anyone’s head spin.

“I think it best if we cease our questioning for the night,” Tom suggests in a voice that brokers no argument. Florence nods mutely. “Perhaps we could start this?”

Florence watches as Tom lifts the ruffled copy of the _Iliad_ before him, the golden figure of Achilles lifting his spear before an invisible army just out of frame. Warmth spreads across Florence’s shoulders, soothing the tension that lay there until she can do nothing but shake her head in agreement.

“Come sit beside me,” she says, pointing to the other side of the couch. “You’ll want to see the pictures.”

Tom moves across the room like a hunter tracking a deer, his gaze steady, his movements light but decisive, at all times closing in upon his prey. Florence forces herself not to breathe deeply when the clinically clean smell that can only be Tom washes over her, forces herself not to lean into him when she feels the cushion sink beside her, his towering frame lowered slowly onto the seat.

“I don’t know how much my voice can take,” Florence admits, holding out her hand for the book. Tom stares at her, but he makes no move to pass Florence the text.

“If you would, I would prefer to be the reader this time,” he murmurs, and his voice is velvet against her skin, the softness in his face every truth she has ever known. Florence nods before she can even think about it, the idea of denying him as loathsome as pressing a knife to her own flesh. It is easy, sitting beneath his gaze, to know why so many followed him to the ends of the earth, even if that end was madness. He was captivating, even in the smallest, most intimate of moments – magic of a completely different kind, and after years of being alone, Florence finds that she wants to drink it until she never hungers again.

She turns, resting her head against the back of the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her and adjusting the cocoon of blankets so that she can see the pictures with ease. Tom does not move closer, but he angles to poem to face her, allowing Florence’s umber gaze to brush across the cover for a moment before he peels the text open and flips to book one.

 _“Sing, O Goddess…”_ Tom begins, but whatever else follows after Florence never remembers. His voice is silk and sin, deep and cavernous, light as the warmest Summer breeze surrounding Florence and drawing her in. She watches as his mouth forms each word, pale lips and flashes of a pink tongue leaving her adrift upon the current of his influence, helpless to the things that stir within the confines of her ribs. He reads and his eyes move like tiny chasms of infinity across the page, drinking in each line, reforming it into something entirely his own, something that only the two of them can share. Tom reads and for a moment he is just a man, and his voice is a song and a promise and a gift all at once, branding her with the weight of his presence again and again and again until there is only him. It _is_ only him.

.

.

.

It becomes their routine, amongst other things. Coffee and tea on the back terrace in the morning, meals in the smallest dining room, afternoon walks or rides in the ring where Tom can observe from the side, and at night conversations that last until the small hours of the morning. He reads to her when the truth of his past actions becomes too upsetting, leaving her panting or faint, and it is Tom’s voice that pieces her reality back together as she hovers in a hazy state between nightmares and dreams.

And at all times, as the months pass, she is amazed – that he is alive, that he is here with her, that since the first time he’d looked at her he’d ceased to look away.

His questions about Forsythe are not what Florence expected – menial inquiries into his favorite pastimes, his managerial style while he ran the Blount property, or any number of things. Tom asks Florence where they honeymooned and if he’d wanted a boy or a girl – were they able to have children – and Florence answers him with tears in her eyes, and he asks her what shows they had seen and what flowers he specialized in. She sends Cash back to the farm to bring back a cluster of orange azaleas that were like tiny tongues of flame, and Florence shows them to Tom before planting the cutting by the back door, singing under her breath until even the fragile branch would be in no danger of a cold, New York spring.

Tom watches with alarming attention as Florence draws upon the spirits of her ancestors, his face rapt at the sight of Florence’s magic, frenzied and near-intoxicated levels of desire moving across his face in waves. She meets his gaze as she gets to her feet, brushing off her hands and realizing that it was the first time she had used the magic of Adsila in over a year.

“Do something else,” he gasps, and his pupils are blown wide and his throat bobs as he swallows as if he has forgotten how to breathe, and Florence reels because he is _begging_ and the thought is heady. Florence flushes, but she smiles. How could anyone deny him when he was like this? Childish with joy, desperate for her in a way that only Tom had ever been.

She sings for warmth then, melting the final vestiges of snow, drawing forth from the frozen ground the first pale green stalks of grass and buds of leaves upon the nearest trees. The air hums and the earth shakes and Florence feels a grin spread across her face as the spirits move through her, melding her magic with the magic around her, reuniting her with the world until she cannot remember the things that had weighed her down for so long.

When she finishes, Florence turns to find Tom kneeling with both hands pressed to the ground, his fingers sinking into the grass is if he is attempting to grow roots. And yet Florence cannot peel her eyes away from Tom’s face, his gaze peeling her apart, remaking her into something new.

“You’re beautiful, Florence,” he whispers, and if words could maim, these three would have left scars upon her heart. “You’re beautiful and powerful, and I will never tire of this.”

“You did once,” Florence whispers in return, and this is the truth she cannot accept: that he has changed enough to choose her, that he will not revert once more into the man who tore her heart into a thousand pieces, terrified that she will once more give over all of herself to rebuild him and that he will still – in the end – leave.

“I never tired of you,” he murmurs, still kneeling on the ground, his face upturned into the sun so that she can see the blue of his eyes, the paleness of his skin which seems to glisten in the light. “In a lifetime of ill choices, you were never one, Florence.” Tom’s voice is firm, certain with a conviction that others might call fervor.

“You must understand I cannot take you at your word, Tom,” Florence murmurs, and the ache inside her chest is like an open maw, a bleeding wound. “No matter how much I wish too. Talking was always one of your many gifts.”

His eyes grow cold and Florence can see the surge of anger he attempts to fight, the flicker of red in his gaze as she denies him again. Privately she wonders how much longer she could ever hold out – how anyone could stand up to him when his words are spun gold, his face deific. Tom gets to his feet, his eyes sweeping out over the now green lawn, his magic crackling around him, unleashed.

“Your reticence is growing increasingly infuriating, Florence,” Tom hisses, his eyes taking in the grass as if he would like to send the entire field up in smoke. “Maddening even, when you yourself have admitted that magic itself binds us.”

“We are both more than our magic, Tom,” Florence snaps, her own anger rising to meet his.

“We are more _because_ of our magic, Florence,” he counters hotly, stepping closer so that Florence can taste the metallic flare of enchantment across her tongue. “You deny yourself by refusing this truth.”

“And you don’t get to return to my life after fifty years and pretend that you know what is best for me!” Florence shouts, and her mouth forms into a snarl as if she might rip Tom’s head from his shoulders. To her horror, he smiles – savage and wide, bearing his teeth like he’d like nothing more than to tear into her in return.

“Don’t I?” He asks, and iron seems to envelope Florence’s lungs. “ _You have reminded me what it is to be alive,_ ” Tom whispers, her own words an arrow sliding between her ribs, ripping her open with the truth of it. “I am the _only_ one that knows what is good for you, because I am the only one that knows you, Florence, just as you are the only one who knows me.”

“Your ego is insufferable.”

“And your pride – your self-inflicted loathing – damnable,” he shouts back, thunder clapping in his voice. “I’ll fucking make the sun rise in the West and set in the East if that’s what you need, but I can’t do that if you won’t trust me, Florence.”

“And why should I?” Florence demands, feeling a trickle of her own magic in the air, the stirring of the wind around them. “Because you’ve agreed to answer my questions? Because you haven’t attempted to kill me or ignite wizarding war in the few months since you were remade? Forgive me, Tom, but that’s a low bar, even for a man of your morals.”

“Because I asked you too,” he says, and his tone is devoid of any emotion at all, his magic receding into him at once as he regains control of his temper. Florence feels her own magic thrash without the pressure of Tom’s to fight against, and then it too slowly calms as she takes in the tension in his jaw, the wrinkle between his brow. “And because I want you too.”

Florence chokes, pressing her palm to her sternum to quell the sudden flare of pain in her chest. She closes her eyes, unable to meet his gaze, the accusations and mingled desperation that sit somewhere on the edge of chaos in his eyes, and she is terrified of becoming lost in it. It seems that Tom, in his newest form, had learned to manipulate truth instead of lies, brutal honestly that could mutilate and disfigure.

“I asked you for patience,” she murmurs at last, all fight seeping from her voice. She opens her eyes once more, finding him wide-eyed and still, like a deer preparing to bolt. “That is not what this is.”

And before he can say another word, Florence returns to the house and to her room, forgoing their tradition of lunch together by the back window.

.

.

.

It is a week later during their morning coffee that Tom suggests it. Florence has just poured her first mug, stirring in ample amounts of half and half when he slides onto the step beside her, leaving only an inch of air between their bodies that nearly sings with his proximity.

“I’d like to take you to London,” he says at once, his face turned to survey the field which is now fully green, stalks darkening with each passing day. Florence nearly spits out her drink, swallowing with watering eyes and followed by several loud coughs.

“What?”

“I’d like to take you to London,” Tom repeats as if commenting on the weather.

“Wouldn’t I be the one taking you?” Florence snorts. “Considering I am the one with a wand and money.”

“Fine,” Tom growls, and Florence smiles at the way his jaw bites down around the word, that she can still get under his skin with such ease. “Will _you_ take me to London?”

“I can think of a hundred reasons not too, number one being that you are supposed to be dead, and number two that you terrorized the entire British Wizarding community for a combined two decades, but I’ll humor you by asking why you want to go?”

Tom grimaces at her, his face clearly stating _you are not as funny as you believe._ Florence beams in return.

“I have things in my flat…things I would like to show you.” Tom’s words are slow, carefully decided upon.

“Your flat? Surely the apartment isn’t still there?”

“I placed wards on it,” Tom offers shortly.

“Wouldn’t they break when you died?”

“I thought ahead.” Tom’s reply is curt, his grimace turning into a full blown frown. Florence shakes her head, unable to hide the smile that presses across her cheeks.

“Can I think about it?” Florence asks, surprised that she is willing to consider the trip, aware that she has been itching for a change of scenery every day for the past month. Her newfound energy, it seems, was manifesting in many ways – one of which was that she was no longer content to stay in one place for months at a time.

“I would not ask if it was not important.”

“I know,” Florence assures him, and then she flushes, alarmed that she _does_ know. That she can feel any form of certainty towards Tom Riddle.

His resulting smile sears its way into her heart, locking itself into her memory in a golden flash of amber.

.

.

.

It only takes Florence two weeks to decide – two weeks to confirm that she is either the world’s most foolish woman or has finally succumb to insanity, because in two weeks Florence finds she is willing to attempt to sneak the most wanted magical criminal in the world into the heart of London. She almost throws up when she thinks about the smile that will spread across his face when she tells him, disgusted by her need for it, her desires that she can no longer control.

“This is for you,” Florence tells Tom, sliding the brown paper package onto the dining room table before him. He stares at it for a moment, delight spreading across his face at the idea of a present, setting aside his half-eaten breakfast so that he can focus upon the box. He tears into it, his appetite in this regard similarly robust as his hunger for food, for magic, for Florence, paper flying into the air behind him like a kid on Christmas. In mere seconds he is lifting the lid of the wooden crate, peering over the lip of the box to stare down upon a broken pocket watch.

“I specially requested the watch,” Florence admits when he says nothing, desperate to break the growing silence. “Since I went to MACUSA and decommissioned the one I originally gave you.”

“ _Florence_ ,” he whispers, midnight eyes still locked upon the contents of the crate as if beholding a newborn child.

“You’ll have to transfigure your appearance, of course,” Florence continues. “And I paid extra not to have to move through customs…although I did tell them I was traveling alone…” Her voice trails off, fading in the face of his expression, the levity that lives in it.

“When do we leave?”

“In an hour, and once we arrive we have twenty-four until it brings us back.”

“I’ll need your wand,” Tom says, lifting his eyes from the portkey to meet Florence’s own. Her mind goes blank, a tingling running down her spine and a pressure building behind her temples as his words sink into her system.

“Why?”

“I can’t cast a glamour without one, it’s too advanced for me to do wandless,” he admits, and his voice becomes gravely in his irritation. Something seems to catch in Florence’s throat as she becomes aware of the piece of wood she has jammed into her back pocket. Tom’s gaze is unflinching, like he’s asked for a second pot of tea not a deadly weapon. Florence wavers for only a moment, and then she reaches around, wraps her hand around the worn wood, and passes it to him handle forward. His sight does not flicker from hers as his fingers encircle the wood, his head bobbing in a slight nod – the closest he will come to saying thank you.

It is several moments and a few waves of her wand later that a taller, short-haired version of Abraxas Malfoy stands before her, his eyes noticeably blue instead of pale gray.

“Well,” Tom asks, and Florence is relieved that his voice has not changed.

“I prefer you with brown hair, but no one will recognize you,” Florence tells him with an easy smile, accepting the wand he hands back to her. “Let’s hope we don’t run into any Malfoys on the streets of London.” Tom’s smirk is the same despite the new façade.

They wait in the dining room, Tom pacing before the fire, occasionally stopping to glance at Florence before resuming his weary march. Florence attempts to flip through the day’s copy of the _Wizarding Times_ that the morning eagle just delivered, but the words move together until all she can do is stare at the Sunday color cartoons until the clock on the wall informs them its three minutes until ten. Without speaking they stand across from one another, each pressing a singular finger to the surface of the watch, and then there is a wrenching in their navels, and Tom’s eyes meeting hers is the last thing she sees before spinning into nothingness.

They land in the designated port outside of the Leaky Cauldron, Tom taking the lead at once as he moves from the yellow circle down the alley and out onto the main road. His pace was swift and yet unhurried, a determined stride that did not beg questions. Florence trails one step behind him – she’d never reached his flat via NoMaj means, but they’d both agreed the less magic Tom did while in England the better.

Yet despite being on an empty, NoMaj sidewalk, Florence cannot stop the pounding in her chest, fighting with each move the undeniable urge to glance over her shoulder. _Will I be responsible for returning Britain’s greatest nightmare to her streets_ Florence wonders faintly, but then they are turning down another street and Tom is pressing his hand to the stone archway beside a set of double doors. Before Florence has a moment to ask, the brick wall to their left ripples for a moment, and then a black door with a golden knocker and brass handle appear.

“After you,” he murmurs quietly, smirking at the stunned expression on Florence’s face. She feels her face redden, but Florence steps through the door regardless, ignoring the heat of his eyes upon her as they move up a dark set up stairs to another landing. It is a dark area, lit only by two sconces, flickering with a pale while flame that emits from two intertwined serpents mouths.

“Charming,” Florence frowns, casting her eye over her shoulder to find that Tom Riddle is himself once more, blonde hair now brown, skin once more reminiscent of moonlight. “So much for needing a wand for a glamour.” Tom smirks.

“I was curious if you’d trust me.”

“Open the door,” Florence commands, and Tom – with another wicked grin – steps past her and presses his hand flat against the dark wood. There is a click, and then the door swings open.

“ _Lumos_ ,” Tom whispers under his breath, and vaguely a voice at the back of her mind tells her the spell is verbal only to warn her before light invades her senses.

The apartment is as she remembers it – altered only in that it is covered in a layer of dust so thick that everything has taken on a ghostly quality. Tom steps in first, Florence following just after, her nose wrinkling at once at the stench of mold and mildew, of stale air that has not seen the sun in a generation. The marble floor glistens dully under the layer of grime, the crown molding riddled with cobwebs, but the space holds the same dark, Victorian air that it had when Tom had truly resided here and Florence shudders to be amongst it once more, at the memories that begin to resurface within her mind.

“If I cast a cleaning charm, will I be attacked by your wards?” Florence asks, holding her wand before her. Tom runs a hand across the table in the center of the foyer, frowning at the dust that sticks to his skin.

“No – your magic has always been coded into my wards,” he says, still glancing around the room. His words are faint, as if he is not even considering them. “You have nothing to fear from this place.”

Unsure how or if she should respond, Florence casts a variety of charms, transfiguring the dust upon the floors to wax, polishing the windows, stirring the air so that the stale, unused sense about the place would soon fade. Somewhere in the distance Florence hears the sound of several windows throwing themselves open, and through an open doorway down the hall she sees light spilling out.

“What is it you wanted to show me,” Florence prods several moments after her spells have ceased, Tom seemingly still lost in his mind as his midnight eyes rove the apartment. Her words seem to stir him, turning to observe her, a mask of indifference sliding onto his face. Florence’s grip on her wand increases, but she smiles at him, encouraging him in the only way he knows how.

“This way.”

Tom leads her down the hallway, each step like bursting through another wall in her mind. _In that room Tom first introduced me to wizard’s chess. One of my Dittany trees used to grow on that pedestal. There was a painting there I tore when Tom was teaching me stinging jinxes._ Her footsteps falter, but she continues, her eyes drawn to the sliver of skin visible along Tom’s neck like it is some form of North star. He leads her through the drawing room and down another hallway, and then Florence knows where he is taking her, and the thought makes her want to turn tail and hide, unprepared to face a space made entirely of memories.

Tom’s bedroom remains unchanged – dark walls, bed still made as if he’d only left it that morning – and yet Florence herself returns to it different. She does not know where to look, every surface taboo, memory after memory assaulting her mind as she recalls the days she’d spent in these quarters. An admittedly limited number, but all the more impactful for it. He comes to a halt in the center of the room, turning to look once more over his shoulder, his gaze black in the semi-dark of the space. For a moment, half of his face cast in shadow, Florence wonders if she has made a mistake – if she will die in the same room in which they had slept together – but then he smiles at her, brilliant and beautiful and Florence could never regret _this_.

“I…returned here only once after our parting,” Tom begins, his voice low as he speaks, his gaze never straying from hers. “I returned only to seal this place…It contained too many memories of you, I had no intent to reside here without you, and yet I could not destroy it.”

Florence nods, wrapping her arms around her stomach, unable to speak. She wishes she’d brought a coat – the apartment was painfully cold, but it was too late for that.

“I was weak, and in my weakness I told myself that I kept the apartment only because I would need a place to hold you should you have returned to me,” Tom admits, and he lets out a laugh but it is dry and brittle, breaking into a thousand pieces. “I never liked the idea of you mingling with my followers – I wanted to keep you separate, selfishly, I wanted you all for myself.”

“So I was to be your prisoner her,” Florence gulps, and the cold pressing into her skin sinks a layer deeper, her entire body convulsing with a shiver. Tom notices the movement, and his face grows blanker still until he is more granite then man.

“At one time, maybe…but the truth more honestly put was that I could not destroy the memory of you, and this place is made only of memories. I spent so little time here whenever you were away, it would have been impossible to exist in this space without feeling the ghost of your absence.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Florence asks, unsure if she is warmed or petrified by his admissions.

“Because you asked how I could be so certain, and the only way I could show you was this.”

Tom squats for a moment, reaching beneath the bed and pulling forth a massive black chest. Its lid was wrought with mother of pearl and gold, silver unicorns running across and field and flying ships across the skyline, and in the center a tree that continuously bloomed emerald leaves that transitioned to amber before they fell away completely, only to begin the cycle anew. Florence steps closer, entering Tom’s bedroom against her better judgement in order to better see the lid. It is a work of art, magic for the sake of magic, and Florence cannot stop herself from reaching out and running a finger along its surface. The chest was warm and smooth, and not a speck of dust lived upon it, as if there were protective enchantments living in the wood itself.

“I am certain that I will never tire of you, Florence, because even at the height of my power, when I was less than a man, I could never destroy you,” Tom whispers, and she can feel his breath upon her neck as he stands behind her. Every muscle in her body clenches, one hand sneaking up to her chest where she presses against the racing organ there, desperate to quell its frantic beating. “You were a thorn in my mind, even when my mind was in eight parts, and yet with all of the magical ability at my fingertips, never once did I demolish this place, did I attempt to erase the memory of you.”

One pale hand lands on the chest before her. There is a hum in the air as Tom’s magic vibrates around them, and then with a small _click_ the chest unlocks and Tom throws open the lid. For a moment Florence holds her breath, and then a whimper slides between her lips, long and low.

“Will you set the chest on the floor please,” she whispers, unable to rip her eyes away. “I’d like to go through it piece by piece.”

Tom complies without question, levitating the chest off his bed to rest in the center of the oriental rug before he moves to seat himself in the chair in the corner. Florence takes to her knees before the trunk, her hands resting upon the edge as she peers into its depths.

There is an aching warmth that begins somewhere beneath her ribs, like slow moving molasses drippling from her fingers and across her skin, small tendrils of magic that ease worried muscles and soothe frantic thoughts until Florence feels balmy and cordial and ready to dive into the case before her. Without thinking, she turns to glance at Tom, his legs crossed in a typically stiff position, and she smiles at him, true and broad and wide until she thinks the gesture causes more pain than joy.

He’d saved everything. Every gift, ever letter, every memory they’d shared together it seemed from a first cursory glance across the chest’s top layer of contents. Again there is an ache in her chest as the feeling grows, and then she is suddenly aware of the magic that binds, that moves through her and in her and all around her, how it sings for herself and the spirits of her people, and how it sings for the man across from her too, how it has always sang for him since the moment she first beheld him.

“A thorn in your mind?” Florence asks, hand poised above the lip of the trunk, prepared to meet its contents. Tom’s smile is easy, his eyes soft in a way they had only ever been for her, and Florence feels the ache for him consumer her, a wave meeting its inevitable ending.

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the movement between Tom and Florence doesn't feel too forced or too quick/too slow. I have been struggling with balancing the line between them already knowing each other and yet having to relearn each other, but I hope it at least somewhat worked!!!!
> 
> Stay safe everyone& all the best to you and yours:)
> 
> Edit: realized this is kind of ended with a semi-cliffhanger - that wasn't my intent but I hit over 8,000 words and needed to wrap up haha. My apologies!


	56. Chapter 56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't want to give anything away in this chapter, so all I'll say is thanks for being here and happy reading Xx So So SOOO grateful for you readers.

**Chapter 56**

“Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away.” 

  
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Tom wants to go to her. He wants to close the chest and press Florence against it, to bury himself in her until they beat as one complete entity, to press his lips against the corner of her mouth, to run his tongue along the tendons in her neck and mark her with his hands and his teeth and his words. But he restrains himself, clutching the edges of the chair and watching as Florence pulls – piece-by-piece – memories incarnate from his hidden trove.

Her eyes swim at once as he watches bronzed fingers wrap around a silver picture frame, and though he cannot see the photo, Tom knows it holds the swirling visage of his past self holding a white clad Florence Allman tight against him. How many hours had he lost himself staring at her smile? At the grainy portrayal of the woman who’d set a fire within him that he’d never quelled? Florence runs a finger over the glass and he bites the inside of his mouth when he sees a stray tear fall upon the frame.

“I burned all of these,” she whispers, and her voice is a croak, a moan, and Tom feels like he is being torn to shreds, his soul threatening to break again because he wants to fucking _hold_ her and why, _why_ has he never been able to control himself when it comes to Florence Allman? “I’m glad you saved them.”

Florence looks at him then, and it is a physical agony to be across the room from her, the smile that graces her lips the only lifeline he has left.

“Will you look through them with me?” She asks and Tom nods before he understands what he has agreed too. Who was he to deny her? Getting to his feet, he seats himself on her right, extending his legs away from her form. Without a word Florence passes him the frame, and Tom admires the fingerprints she left upon the silver for a moment before he allows his gaze to move to the beaming figure of seventeen year old Florence Allman – swathed in white, flower petals collecting in her hair. For the thousand time, he wonders how he could have walked away from _this_.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Florence whispers, pulling out the neatly folded, moss green hunting jacket she’d once given to him on his birthday. Her smile is abounding as she runs a hand across the waxed fabric, her finger flipping up the corduroy collar.

“You never did rip it off me,” Tom points out with what he knows is a sinful smirk. Florence’s mouth falls open, her golden skin turning cherry red as she passes him the jacket, but whether she shakes her head at his audacity or at the memory that they are both reliving, he does not know. Tom has a desperate moment in which he considers letting his fingers brush against hers, but no – _she must break that wall first_ he knows, and so he takes the jacket without another word.

Florence lifts each item from the chest as if she is holding the crown jewels of the muggle queen, her hands trembling around his water stained copy of the _Iliad_ , her face illuminating like a torch when she finds a stack of neatly tied letters – her own handwriting familiar to her. Florence reads them aloud, Tom peering over her shoulder as she ridicules her own writing, laughing at her fumbling declarations of love, almost but not quite poetry.

“I mean who did I think I was? Byron?” Florence laughs, passing Tom yet another yellowed piece of parchment over her shoulder. He is thankful her attention is otherwise occupied – she does not see the way his gaze hovers over those words she now picks apart, detailing the way her “v” melted into her “e” when her letters ended with _all my love_ , and she does not see the way he carefully folds each one, rebuilding the stack that she is pulling apart.

Florence tears into her own Latin phrasing – native magic she had given him – correcting her past mistakes and reigniting the debate between them over possession of magic. Tom argues because it feels good too, because her eyes gleam like struck flint and her words sing through the air and it is the closest yet she has come to the Florence he remembers of old – her grief only a passing shadow – and he’ll do anything to keep her there.

There are books he begrudgingly admits he’d purchased only because Florence had expressed her interest in them, and several folded dresses that she’d left hanging in his wardrobe as spares. She bursts into fully fledged tears when the ticket to the symphony at Carnegie Hall falls from between the pages of a novel, and Tom grips the edge of the trunk when she pulls forth a small silver box, lifting the lid off it slowly.

“Are these…” Florence trails off, her voice hollow and breathless, and Tom releases a jet of air through his nose.

“The pins in your hair from Samhain.”

“That feels like another life,” Florence whispers, taking one and holding the diamond studded beret up to the light so that it casts rainbows of light across her face.

“It was, for me at least,” Tom reminds her, and Florence’s gaze finds his, her eyes like warm coffee that he wants to inhale.

Florence coos at the empty bottles of ink that Tom grudgingly tells her that she had shared with him when he’d run out in ancient runes, a gift of generosity simply because she could, and he’d sequestered away the empty bottle unable to part with the symbol of her kindness. There were eagle feather quills from birthdays past, pressed Dittany leaves, and the invitation to her debut alongside the leather gloves she had worn that Tom had vanished away to his trunk. It is like a cavern into the past, and the two of them pick through the items, talking amicably about those things they had once shared, that they shared now again.

“Can we bring this back to America?” Florence asks after the last item has been reviewed. Outside the window, the sun is beginning to set, nearly the entire afternoon spent on the floor of Tom’s bedroom perusing trinkets.

“If you’d like.”

“I would,” Florence whispers, running a final hand over the packet of letters before she reaches for the lid and closes it with a _snap_. She gets to her feet, dusting off her backside and stretching above her head.

“I didn’t think about dinner – would you like me to go pick something up from a Muggle grocery – you can cook.”

“No,” Tom says too quickly, infuriated by the lurching in his chest at the idea of being parted from her now. “No,” he says more slowly this time. “We can get owl delivery from the Leaky Cauldron.”

“Alright,” Florence agrees, but her smile is knowing and Tom has to lead the way into the kitchen to escape the burning heat that is growing in his groin.

They share a pan of Shepard’s pie, the meal delicious if somewhat more bland than the dish had been at Hogwarts once upon a time. Florence tells him about Forsythe when he asks, and Tom notes that her eyes do not swim with tears, the corners of her mouth flickering up in a half smile as she admits that Forsythe had been the slowest reader, her face burning bright red when Tom asked how good he’d been in bed, nearly choking on her mouthful of pie.

“I’m _not_ answering that.”

“I’ve answered all of your questions, regardless of my own opinions on the matter,” Tom points out. If looks could kill, the stare Florence lobbies at him would sever him in two.

“My marriage was extremely satisfying on every level, Tom,” Florence finally hisses, and Tom’s smirk widens at the rosiness of her cheeks, the gleam in her eye that is different than before that sends heat to pool in his gut.

“And,” Florence adds, getting to her feet to clear their dishes. Tom watches as she charms the musty old kitchen rag to clean the plates itself, thrilled as always by her casual use of magic, that she had grown into her capabilities in the end. “Should you be feeling competitive-” Florence’s smile grows wicked, her wand twirling between her fingers. “He was rather well endowed, so I wouldn’t get any ideas of _Slytherin supremacy_.”

Tom’s mouth falls open, his pride burning hotter every moment, his magic flaring inside of him at her words. Florence laughs, her head falling back to reveal the curvature of her neck, and his anger is forgotten at once, transfixed by the ringing of her voice off the kitchen tiles.

“I’m going to head to bed,” Florence says, wiping a stray tear from the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. “Remember that the portkey leaves at the same time we arrived today, so don’t sleep in.”

She bids him goodnight and he watches her caramel hair disappear down the hall, the door to the guest bedroom thudding closed a moment later. Tom remains in his seat well after she is gone, staring at the space where she had disappeared, unable to name the heaviness in his chest that they had not upheld their nightly tradition of reading. It is some time before he can move again.

.

.

.

Tom wakes to darkness, the sliver of sky visible through the crack in his curtains deepest blue, flickering with the light of only the strongest stars, capable of defying even the lights of London. Blinking twice, Tom turns onto his back, seeking out the sound that had shifted him from restless sleep into wakefulness, and rolling onto the other his other side, he finds the door to his bedroom halfway open – Florence standing in the archway observing him. Tom’s mouth goes dry, the creaking of the door sliding further open still the only sound as his gaze traces down her figure. She is dressed only in a t-shirt, perhaps one of his old ones, the bottom hem barely reaching her thighs. In her hand she is holding something, and her hair is slightly mussed, as if from tossing and turning.

“We didn’t read,” she murmurs at last, but in the silence her voice is overwhelming, like the first call of a siren. Tom sits up in bed slightly, a thickness moving to press upon his ribs like an anvil. “May I?” she asks, jerking her head toward his bed with the slightest motion possible.

Tom can only nod, blinking twice to confirm that she is real, not a specter or mere figment of his imagination. Her footsteps are silent upon the floor as she draws closer, her gaze nearly black in the darkness. She passes him the book, Tom taking it without comment as Florence peels back the corner of the quilt and slides into the bed alongside him. He shivers as a blast of cold air brushes across his skin, still unable to believe his eyes, terrified that he will awake at any moment – that Florence has not truly sought him out. She rests on her elbow, and for the first time he notices that she is shaking slightly, her breathing shallow.

“May I?” She asks again, and this time Tom ceases to breathe at all, her voice the only sound that has followed him through the years, a beacon and a dream and a cry in the dark. Again he nods, and for the briefest moment their gazes form a bridge, and then she folds herself into him, her arm wrapping around his waist, leg tangling with his beneath the quilt, the side of her face pressing into his chest where he knows she can hear the thundering of his heart, the ways that she illuminates him.

For one moment after she touches him there is nothing, and then every nerve in his body sings, his eyes fluttering shut as pleasure tears up and down his system, levity threatening each corner of his mind until tears – _actual tears_ – prick at the edges of his eyes. His magic feels uncaged, frantic and frenzied as it rushes to meet the magic that now leaps from Florence’s skin to his own, enchantment that is older than time, deeper than anything he ever learned in his years of power. _I do not deserve this_ he knows, but Tom does not care. He has never been a good man, but he’ll move mountains for this, for the weight of her head upon his shoulder, for the physical pain of her nails digging into his side.

Tom wraps one arm around her, his hand resting upon the curve of her waist and drawing her in until she is flush against him. As one they both let out a deep sigh, Tom’s head falling back upon the headboard with a slight _thud_ , his magic exhausted as if he’d just run a marathon.

“Please read,” Florence whispers after a moment, and Tom knows because he can _fucking feel her_ , he is _touching_ her and her pulse is racing beneath his fingers and her breath is warm against his neck and every plane of his body has been elevated, every curve of his figure custom fitted for hers, that she is as terrified by the magic that binds them still as he is. That they could both be so helpless to the things that pass between them. Tom’s fingers sink into the softness of her waist, but he nods, reaching with his other hand for the lamp.

He has hardly read two pages when her breathing changes, her grip on his torso loosens slightly, and he looks down to find her mouth parted in sleep. At once he marks the page and sends the book to rest itself upon the dresser, flicking of the lamp with a twitch of his finger so as not to disturb her. Tom stares at her, dumbfounded by the rising and falling of each breath, amazed that he can feel the magic that pulses through her with each exhale. _She is beautiful_ he knows, and there has never been anything more remarkable than the moment when she adjusts in her sleep, the leg wrapped around his moving further between his thighs, her face seeking the curve where his neck meets his shoulder.

As gently as possible, Tom folds his other arm around Florence, resting his head atop hers before allowing himself to drift off into dreams. It is still many hours before he manages to drop away into slumber.

.

.

.

Tom barely registers he is awake, vaguely aware of a set of fingers intertwining with the hair at the base of his neck and the serious gaze of umber eyes before he feels something brush against his lips. Featherlight and slightly rough from a night of sleeping with her mouth open, Florence’s mouth slots against his, hardly moving before pulling back just slightly.

He is awake at once, aware of the hardness between his legs that his pressed against her hip, how his entire body nearly aches with need for her, his lungs incapable of bringing in enough air to breathe. He sits up slightly, his grip on her waist must be bruising as he rolls the two of them over, his chest pressing Florence into the mattress. She smiles at him and Tom nearly groans, his teeth longing to sink into her flesh, to claim her in every way a man can.

“ _Florence_ ,” he thinks he says as a question, but it is hard to judge, his mind faltering as she smiles up at him, the hand tangled in his hair tightening slightly until she is pulling his face closer to hers.

“It’s alright,” she whispers against his lips, one leg already curling around his back. “You can have this too.”

It is magic, he thinks, that their mouths move together in such a way, that the moan she releases when he sinks his teeth into her bottom lip makes him near frantic with need. Florence latches onto him, her hands everywhere at once – his hair, his back, digging into his shoulders- and yet he is not satisfied, the monster inside of him that lives only to consume her screaming for him to take her. Tom groans into Florence’s mouth when he slides a hand under her knickers to find her warm and wet and waiting, his entire body shaking at this point, fifty years of loss singing in his veins.

He wishes he was a patient man as he pulls down her underwear, that he was good enough to cherish this moment, but he has only ever needed one thing – Florence Allman – and after so long he thinks he might truly die without the feeling of being buried inside her.

With a snarl he pushes down his boxers just enough to grip himself, his other hand lifting Florence’s thigh as he slides into her with a thrust. Stars flicker before his eyes and he nearly collapses onto her, Florence’s own gaze dancing closed as she lets out a breathy sigh. He freezes for just a moment, and then moves with a pace that will leave her sore and aching for days to come. Tom presses his face into her neck, reaching a hand between their bodies to press his thumb to the center of her heat, his every moment rough and unpracticed, and yet he thinks he could melt into her, that somewhere amongst the heavens they were crafted for this.

He comes buried inside of her, Florence following soon after as he rides her through his pleasure, his hand ceaseless upon her skin. Her voice is dry as she lets out a whimper, and desperate to claim every part of her, Tom moves his lips back to hers, swallowing the noise, possessive of everything she will give him.

“ _Tom,_ ” she whispers.

“ _Florence_ ,” he replies, and he lifts his head away to smile at her, at this conversation in only two words, a language the two of them alone could share.

The second time is slower than the first, Florence rolling him onto his back where she sits astride him, moving at such a leisurely pace he thinks he may go mad. His hands fist in the shirt she wears, a garment he’d ordered her to keep on because she was _his_ – fucking _his_ and he would cloth her in jewels and silks and everything fine enough to grace her skin so that the world could see she was his own. But for now it was enough to adorn her in his simple cotton shirt, to watch through hooded eyelids as she uses him for her own pleasure, her face slack and open and _beautiful_.

They run naked through the apartment like children, and Tom takes her against the wall in the guest bedroom, his fingers sinking into her hips, and he buries his face between her thighs in the shower until she begs him to stop, overstimulated and flushed and fucking _everything_ Tom has ever needed.

“Remember the first time we came here?” Florence asks, scrubbing fifty year old shampoo into his hair that he is sure won’t help, but content to have her nails raking across his scalp. “We’re like kids again.”

“Do that mean I can fuck you during breakfast?” Tom whispers against her lips, and Florence screams when he lifts her from the ground, rubbing his suds covered hair across her skin. Her laughter rings across the bathroom, and Tom must bury his face in her neck to prevent her from seeing his own expression. He has never done anything to deserve this, of that he is certain, and he holds onto her all the tighter for it.

They nearly miss their portkey, Tom hovering in a hazy state of gratification as Florence busies herself on her knees. Laughing and flushing like students caught with their hands beneath the desk, Tom only manages to zip up his pants, Florence summoning the chest of memories from the bedroom before they both press their fingers to the portkey, Tom’s free hand wrapping around Florence’s waist before they are pulled through time and space.

The land in the dining room and he is upon her again, a parasite devouring her body and soul and magic itself, burning her, leaving Florence writhing beneath his ministrations. Tom feels powerful in a new way as she lays on the table panting beneath him, legs still wrapped around his waist, Tom still buried inside her despite having grown soft. She smiles up at him, easy and content, and Tom feels again the strange thickness in his throat, the thrumming in his chest telling him that _this_ was authority, that Florence Allman had been the world he’d been searching for all along.

Words spring forth into his mind then, three of them specifically, and Tom feels himself pale at the thought, the horrifying realization that is churning through him, a name for the burning that has been tearing through his nerves, for the ache in his chest that Florence has created as far back as their first lesson in the Charms classroom. He wants to tell her, but some part of his mind finds the thought of sharing something so orbit shifting while still sheathed inside her insidious, and so he bends forward to press his lips to hers before lifting Florence from the table and taking her up the stairs and once more to the bathroom. This time to soak in the tub and learn over again the lines of her body, to worship every cell that she was composed of.

.

.

.

That night Florence sleeps deeply, a stray arm thrown across him as he watches the rise and fall of her shoulders.

Tom thinks of Forsythe, who’d made his love for Florence into a living thing, crafting flowers like a summer bonfire that had continued on despite his departure from this world. He thinks of Illini, who’d sacrificed her soul for his, who’d given him a second chance at life because she cared for Florence Allman, because she would give herself over for the last person she loved.

He thinks of himself, who has never deserved Florence even if his magic _is_ made for hers, and he curses again the choices he’d made. He thinks of the final secret he still holds from her, and something akin to fear runs through him, because after so many mountains and valleys, he was still, in the end, hurting her.

Tom pulls her close then, pressing his face to her neck and giving himself over to her embrace, the warmth he will never tire of, the faint scent of coffee that sends a smile to tickle at his face.

.

.

.

“I am going to work on something,” Tom tells her a month later. Florence is curled with her head upon his lap reading a book, Tom’s fingers moving through her hair as he picks through a textbook that floats before him.

“Okay,” Florence mutters, her hand clenching around his thigh for a moment before returning to her book.

“It will require vast swathes of magic,” he continues, his finger tracing the delicate skin behind her ear.

“Do you need my wand?”

Tom smirks at her head, Florence’s voice a shade off annoyance, as if perturbed that he is interrupting her reading.

“Perhaps for some of it,” he agrees, his hand tracing down her side. Florence shivers beneath his touch, and Tom revels in the breath of air she releases.

“That’s fine, just take it when you need.”

“It is a surprise, Florence. I am only informing you on the off chance your wards are activated as a result of my activities,” Tom explains. “I will be very angry if you try and pry before I am ready to show you.”

“Mmmkay,” Florence murmurs, and he can hear the exhaustion in her voice, the book in her hand drooping slightly. Tom smirks, remember exactly how _exerting_ their morning had been. “But I took down the wards. You don’t need to worry.”

Florence slips into sleep a few moments later, and Tom is left with his hand tangled in her hair, the same aching feeling that only Florence Allman has ever arisen in him surfacing until he cannot breathe.

.

.

.

Tom sets up in one of the spare bedrooms, transfiguring the bed into a desk, the side table into a bookshelf. He sets up repellant charms against Florence on the doorway, determined that she should not know of his plans until he was ready to share them, but whether she has forgotten their conversation or she truly respects his request, Tom never feels the magic activate.

Florence does notice when books start to go missing from the main library, Tom moving them onto the shelf in his operational headquarters, riffling through their pages into the early hours of the morning and taking notes on every menial detail. Soon he’s filled enough notebooks to line one entire shelf, and yet he has to send Cash back to Florence’s home, to the main Allman home, and even to the Blount estate to collect further texts. He knows technically it is stealing, but he rationalizes that Florence is still an Allman and a Blount, even if she has sequestered herself away for his sake. Happily the elf agrees to return the titles when he is finished with his work.

He sends out eagles every morning, using the bank statements he’d taken from his apartment in London that were still tied to the Lestrange vault to finance his plans. It was convenient that the Goblins of Gringotts were not in the habit of questioning the humans that stored their gold beneath their floors, convenient also that the Lestrange line was extinct – they would never notice their missing gold. But, in an abundance of caution, Tom signs each missive under Leonidas’ name, casting a minor _confundus_ charm upon the parchment before sending it on its way across the ocean.

It is a few weeks later that the first shipments begin to arrive, and on days that he must direct deliveries, Tom spends his morning pushing Florence to the brink, sating his need for her until she collapses upon their now shared bed, determined to nap the afternoon away. The workmen never know why he looks so smug, but then again, he has to _confund_ them as well in order to prevent them from remembering his face, and so he’s not sure if they can tell he’s smirking at all.

The work is exhausting, pushing his magic to the limits of his abilities as he toils in the field. Tom sets up secrecy wards and invisibility glamours so that even from the highest point of the house, Florence would not be able to see, to pry into his creation. She does not ask questions, not even on nights when he returns drenched in sweat, staggering with exhaustion well past midnight. On many of this occasions, she is waiting for him on the back step, clutching a mug of steaming hot coco, her gaze fixated upon the stars. Tom would sit with her, pulled down between her knees so that his head would rest upon her stomach.

“Those white flashes are satellites,” she told him one night, pointing to the sky. “They’re some kind of NoMaj contraption.”

“What do they do?” Tom asked, his hands settling on her thighs as if he was sitting in a chair, her legs the armrests.

“No idea,” Florence whispered into his ear, tilting his head back so that she could press her lips to his forehead.

Other nights she points out constellations, naming them. _Orion, Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Draco, Cepheus, and Cassiopeia_. Tom nods along as she speaks, unsure what she is pointing at, but lulled into a sense of security by the rise and fall of her voice, the warmth of her body pressing against his.

And still other nights she takes his hands and pulls him back out onto the grass, seating him upon a quilt and pulling off her shoes to dance with the spirits of her people where he can watch. Tom likes these nights best, when the Earth itself rings with the cacophony of her magic, when Florence’s feet lift off the ground because she can _fly_ and the thought makes her head fall back with laughter and wonder at her own abilities. Tom never tires of it, the way her eyes seek his for approval, the rush of her magic that calls to him on some deeper level.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her when she touches back down, and then he pulls her to the quilt with him and they share magic of a different kind together.

.

.

.

Weeks turn to months and with it Spring turns to Summer. Their patterns have shifted, waking in the same bed, often taking their morning coffee and tea while still wrapped around each other like spools of yarn. Florence is talkative in the morning, telling Tom about the book she is reading or a spell she has come across that she wants to learn. He lets her speak, his hands wandering the trails of her body simply because he can, because she will never be near enough, and sometimes he succeeds in distracting her.

Their breakfast remains unchanged, but their days are often apart while Tom works and Florence wiles her days away riding or reading or baking him all sorts of cakes. She’d noticed, much to his pleasure, how fond he’d been of the first, and without fail he’d found new confectionaries waiting for him at the end of each week in the kitchen.

At night they sit in the drawing room – now in the same chair – Florence wrapped around Tom as he reads to her aloud. The _Iliad_ is soon finished, but Florence supplies him with the _Odyssey_ which Tom finds he likes even more because there is a woman waiting for nefarious Odysseus at the end of his journey despite all of the ways in which he’d wronged her. Florence’s fingers move through his hair as he reads, and her look is knowing, but if she thinks she understands his mind, she does not tell him. And then after the _Odyssey_ is the _Aeneid_ , and then there are what feels like a hundred more. Florence has an endless supply of books for him, but Tom does not complain even on nights when his throat is sore or he is weary to the bone because Florence rests her head on his chest and wraps her limbs around him and falls asleep in his arms nearly every night. It is a tradition he would not give up for the elixir of life – he’s always been selfish where Florence is concerned.

It is on a day in late May that Tom rises to find himself alone in bed. At once he is awake, disgruntled by the lack of a caramel-haired, umber-eyed woman to wish him good morning. He throws off the blankets and pulls on his robe before making his way downstairs, the tracking charm he’d placed upon her leading him to the sitting room.

Florence is curled in the armchair by the shrine to her late husband, her bronzed face damp with tears as she surveys each picture in an endless cycle. Tom can feel the heaviness in her magic, how it does not even sing in his presence, and he moves to sit behind her on the chair, his hands snaking around her waist and chin resting on her shoulder where he too can see the photos.

“It’s his birthday,” Florence finally murmurs, and her body shudders in his grasp. Tom waits for the surge of anger that once accompanied statements such as these, reminders that no amount of magic between them could erase the part of her heart that she had given to Forsythe Blount. Tom waits, but the anger does not come. Instead is only a strange ache in his chest, an echo of his own pain because Florence was hurting, and he’d spend the rest of his life trying to prevent it from ever happening again if she’d let him.

“Tell me about his birthdays,” Tom whispers, leaning back in the chair so that she was cocooned in his arms. A blanket zooms across the room toward them at his beckoning, and Tom carefully wraps it around her, pressing her still tighter against him.

“He hated them,” Florence says, and her eyes never leave the photos, a thin smile dusting her cheeks. “He hated being the center of attention, and he never wanted presents.”

“I’m sure you gave him some despite his wishes,” Tom murmurs, his hand not holding her to him stroking the back of her neck.

“For the first few years, but I just wanted to make him happy in the end. I’d get the elves to cook us his favorite dinner and we’d sit on the back porch and eat and talk about the farm,” Florence tells him, and Tom thinks of their mutual love for the land. It is something he will never understand, but he is glad they had held it together, for Florence’s sake at least.

“Would you like to have the same dinner tonight?” He asks, his fingers never ceasing in their steady up-down motion along her neck. “I believe you told me chicken and dumplings was his favorite?”

Florence looks at him then, her eyes wide and red-rimmed, her lips chapped from crying.

“Why are you doing this?” She asks. Tom nearly tells her then – murmurs the three words that have been ringing in his mind for months, but he manages to hold onto his sanity.

“Because you are mine, Florence,” he whispers. “And I wish for you to be happy.”

They eat Forsythe’s favorite dinner that night, and Tom pretends not to see her wiping tears on her napkin. He has extended one olive branch, but he is unsure if he could truly muster the strength to spend an entire meal discussing Forsythe Blount. And after dinner she tugs him back to the sitting room, stopping briefly to point to the collection of picture frames before they sink into their usual places on the couch.

There, nestled amongst the bronze and gold frames is one silver, his own face gleaming back up at him. Florence spins in his arms, her dress fluttering around her, smile as transfixing then as it is now. It is the frame from his apartment, their mingled fingerprints still pressed into the silver where Florence had not wiped them away, and Tom’s throat clenches.

“We’ll have to take more photos together at some point,” she murmurs, and Tom nods his head absentmindedly. He didn’t need photos, only her. It had always been her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahah WOW smut is so hard to write and mine is so PG-13 and yet I still blush like a 2 year old writing it. 
> 
> So just wanted to let you all know - There are two more installments to Limited. The next chapter will be the last, and then I will post an epilogue of sorts. I didn't really realize that the end was so close to being upon me. Please, if you are the lovely type of person to say goodbyes, don't do so until the epilogue. I don't think I could handle it now. This story and the community around it has been the best part of 2020 and I'm not quite ready to let go!!!
> 
> So - until the next chapter my lovely reader friends! Stay safe please:)


	57. Chapter 57

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok...so... I finished writing the whole thing today. I was going to wait to post, but then I thought - why? There is no reason to other than not being able to let go, and considering it's got to be finished some day, I'd rather do it on my own terms.
> 
> So here we are, the final chapter. I will be uploading the epilogue and the rest of the playlist soon after, so you all should be receiving two post notifications from me. 
> 
> I can't believe it's really happening. This chapter begins with the same quote from chapter one. None of you knew what it meant then, but I'm sure you all do now. 
> 
> Thank you all. I'm saving my final thoughts for my AN after the epilogue:)

**Chapter 57**

“There are no happy endings.  
Endings are the saddest part,  
So just give me a happy middle  
And a very happy start.”

  
― Shel Silverstein, Every Thing on It

Florence is awoken by the sensation of thin fingers trailing down the skin of her stomach, a palm pressing flat into her abdomen as if attempting to reach inside of her. Tom’s gaze is roving her form when her eyes open, at once returning to her face where he kisses her briefly once, a second time swiftly after for good measure.

“Good morning, Florence,” Tom murmurs against her mouth before pulling away, his gaze continuing their prior course.

“Are we becoming…domestic?” Florence asks through a yawn, chuckling dryly at the look of revulsion that passes across Tom’s face.

“Don’t insult me so early in the morning,” he mutters, the hand on her stomach tightening for a moment. “I, at least, have been applying myself. You waste your days away baking.”

“As I recall, you like my baking,” Florence says through another laugh, bringing her hand to rest over his own and intertwining their fingers. Tom’s frown deepens as he looks for a way to defend his honor without insulting her, and more importantly without encouraging her to stop.

“All the same,” he grunts after a moment, and Florence’s head hits the pillow again as she falls back giggling. When her breath returns to her several minutes later, she opens her eyes to find the same soft expression upon his porcelain features that renders her speechless, and she feels her heart stutter to a stop.

“You we’re out late last night,” Florence comments, thumb brushing across his the back of his hand.

“I’ve finished,” he replies, his smirk so wide it could drown an ocean. Florence sits up at once, whirling on him before he can even possibly think to continue.

“Why didn’t you start with that?” She demands. She’s tried to be patient over the past several months, but it was nearing the end of June and still she had not the slightest inclination of what he was working on, why he left her for so many hours to fill her days alone.

“Because you started blathering on about domesticity before I could tell you,” Tom murmurs, leaning forward to press his lips against hers again. Florence melts into him at once, and she can feel him smile, his hand sliding around her and pulling her flush against him.

“When can I see it?”

“Don’t be greedy,” he teases, but his eyes glisten and his mouth pulls back into a genuine smile as he lets his hands roam across her skin.

“I’m always greedy, and I’ve been very patient,” she reminds him. The glimmer in his gaze only increases, his pale skin flushing with excitement, with her obvious desperation for what he will show her.

“Yes, you have been a good girl,” Tom murmurs, and every inch of Florence’s skin burns with mortification at the sinful lilt in his voice. His responding grin is savage in response, the motions of his hands becoming more suggestive until Florence is a shivering mess, putty in his hands.

“If you’re not going to show me yet, you could at least stop teasing,” Florence says with a huff, incapable of meeting his eye.

“Alright,” he agrees, and he drags the last few inches of the sheets from her figure, his lips settling over hers once more.

Thirty minutes later they are fully dressed in the dining room, Florence scarfing down half a biscuit and a cup of coffee while Tom waits on the back porch. She hadn’t wanted to eat at all, but Tom had demanded that she at least have a cup of coffee before he showed her – something about not wanting her in a bad mood when he revealed his masterpiece. Florence smiles at his back out the window, aware of the beating in her heart, of the way it twisted and turned, always back to him.

Two minutes later Florence’s hand is ensconced in his as they move across the lawn. She is sure he is electing to walk her there in order to build her excitement, but Florence does not begrudge him this. She has felt the shivers of his magic for months through the ground, aware that whatever he has crafted through enchantment may border on insane, unimaginable, and yet she feels nothing but contentment moving beside him, a tingling of adrenaline down her spine.

They move past the barn, across the steeplechase field, and finally through and out of a small copse of sycamore and hickory and walnut trees. Tom pauses then, his hand releasing from hers so that he can snag the wand that sticks out of her back pocket. Florence smiles at him bemusedly, but she can feel her pulse within her neck, certain that if he drags out his charade any longer she will burst.

“I will say only this before I remove the glamour,” Tom begins, and his voice is low and roiling, his cheekbones like shards of glass in the pale blue light of the morning that Florence wants to press the pads of her fingers against. Over his shoulder she can see mist gathering, as if the earth itself was working to conceal whatever mystery Tom had crafted. Florence reaches for him then, wrapping her arms around his waist so that she can rest her chin on his sternum. Tom’s eyes widen for a moment at the gesture, but then his hands move to her torso and he pulls her closer.

“You were saying?” Florence prods.

“There are things I would like to tell you,” he murmurs, stooping to press his lips to hers before releasing her. His face warps into a smirk, regal features like polished glass that leaves Florence adrift at sea. “But first, I must show you.”

It is then that she becomes aware of his magic, rippling off of him in such waves that she momentarily blushes at her own ability to be distracted by his touch. Tom’s eyes gleam red for a moment, his figure towering above her, and then he steps towards the line where the glamour hums, raising her wand like a conductor before his orchestra. Florence watches with baited breath, every cell in her body screaming for him to continue. She will never tire of this: watching Tom release the storm of magic within him, performing things that not even in her dreams could Florence imagine

Watching Tom execute spells is most similar, she thinks, to watching master painters of old or sitting in the crowd at the first showing of Beethoven’s 9thsymphony – magnificent, other worldly, capable and strong. His wrist flicks with the snap of a catapult cut free, and then he is off to the races, stooping low, rising high, his voice expanding and falling in a language Florence does not know as he moves her wand through the air. He is a blur, his lithe form grace incarnate as slowly the air before them starts to shimmer, the horizon itself rippling as if the entire world is under his sway, and then Florence staggers because the skyline begins to dissolve and she is left stammering and dizzy, her body vibrating in time with Tom’s magic, a gift he had not even intended.

It is a conservatory Florence knows at once – greenhouse being too paltry a word to describe the wonder before them – the structure refracting light like a cut diamond from thousands of individual glass panes, sage green bars of metal supporting the building that rose before her. Nearly two stories tall, it stretches longer than two quidditch pitches from left to right, the center of the building a massive square while the wings were long, rectangular buildings. The doors are polished oak, and above them there are spires of glass like something off the Taj Mahal, culminating at the tip with a statue of a Piasa seated upon a platform, it’s wings opening and closing, tail thrashing through the wind.

Florence does not trust her voice, certain that if she opens her mouth she will crumple to the ground, incapable of withholding the surge of emotion that is ripping through her, burning her until there is only _this_ , only Tom standing like some sorcerer of old before a building that sings with a fucking _chorus_ of his magic, an edifice to his ability. Florence feels her mouth fall open, but still she cannot speak, her body quivering as her very spirit is enveloped by his magic that permeates the air.

“ _Tom_ ,” she croaks at last, and he turns to face her. She knows in the instant his eyes meet hers that there will never be anything more beautiful, that there is no man like Tom Riddle – that in ten thousand lifetimes, the one he shared with her would be the most remarkable. Tom, with his perfect curls and sculpted face and blood that sang of magic, was inevitable, and he stood before a building he’d made in homage to her, and yet all she can see is the softness around his eyes, the hand he extends towards her.

Florence’s palm is warm against his, their fingers interlacing without thought.

“You hate Herbology,” she says when they stand side by side before the conservatory doors, Florence’s face turned upward to read the inscription in the sage green steel.

“It says—” he begins, but Florence cuts him off, being fluent in Latin herself.

“ _I will carve your name into time itself_ ,” she whispers, and her hand twitches in his. Beside Florence, she can see Tom turn to face her, his eyes moving down her profile as Florence again murmurs the line, noting that the script is in his own hand.

“I promised you that I would,” he says after a moment. “Look.”

Tom pulls her forward, and Florence feels the rush of warm air passing through her body that means she has passed through a ward. It leaves a sensation of static across her skin even after she has passed through, a sign that the wards have been keyed especially to her own magic, a thought that fills her to the point of tears. Tom’s hand tightens around Florence’s, and pointing above the door again with a delicate finger, she sees that the phrase has been replaced by three words.

_Florence Livingston Allman_

“I told you I would build monoliths in your name,” Tom says, and there is a line of steel in his voice, as if daring her to question his intent. Florence laughs then – because never in a thousand lifetimes had she imagined he would do this for her, and yet here she stood before her own private conservatory, a testament to the things she loved most. She wants to tell him thank you, but the words seem measly, offensive even in the face of what he has done, and so instead she pulls his face down to hers, fingers intertwining in his hair as she presses her lips to his. Tom swallows the laughter that dies on her tongue as they meld into one, sparks emitting from the spaces where their skin presses together until they are boneless and breathless and one.

“The land is singing of you,” she whispers into his mouth, and Tom devours these words too, inhaling them as if they are his own life force. “Your magic is boundless.”

He pulls away from her then, just enough so that she can see the way his pupils blow wide, his mouth hangs open as if he is going to tear her to shreds. Florence cannot even bring herself to blush, too focused on sucking air into her lungs.

“Can I show you the rest?” He asks, his fingers pushing into her waist like he might crush her. His cheeks have turned pink, excitement fluttering in every word as he steps away and takes both hands in his. Florence merely nods, her lips occupied by a smile that rips her face in two, and Tom smiles in return. She’ll never deny him, Florence knows, not when he is like this. Not when magic sings in his veins.

The doors open of their own accord, magic for magic’s sake, and Florence lets out a peeling giggle because it is a detail only Tom would think about, a detail she knows he has added for her and it makes her feel powerful and warm and overwhelmed all at once. Tom smirks at her, releasing her hand so that he can wrap an arm around her shoulder and pull her close. Florence lets him, certain that her knees could give out at any moment as they step into the conservatory.

Her first thought is only that it is massive, clearly magically altered to be larger on the inside, the scale dwarfing even the Great Hall which had once upon a dream reduced her to a stuttering, amazed mess. The air is metallic with the residue of magic, moist with water and heat that abounds within the glass walls. There are vines crawling up the walls – Devil’s Snare thrashing for its next victim – Wisteria with its telltale purple flowers hanging from every surface of the inside of the dome, occasionally a stray petal falling down in a mimicry of a circular waterfall.

Everywhere she looks is something new, her sightline obstructed by plants both magical and muggle, palm fronds and orchids with blooms the size of a horse’s head that emit a sickly sweet smell that she feels strangely drawn too. And everywhere, in every molecule about her, Tom’s magic stirs, nestling in the still places, in the panes of glass, in the light that reflects through the foggy air and flowing with the sap of the varied florae before her.

“Native magic,” she realizes, her entire body trembling to a stop. Without thinking she leaps at him again, crying and laughing and kissing him because he’d mastered the one thing he’d never understood for _her_. Tom had ceded control to the spirits around him, and in turn the very Earth vibrated with the intensity of his ability, with the enchantment that was wholly Tom himself. “ _Gods_ you’re miraculous,” she splutters, laughing again when she notices that her tears are smeared across his cheeks. Florence wipes at them, chuckling and kissing him and doing her very best to say the words she cannot form without a rational brain. “Show me more?”

Tom’s gaze is worthy of an epic poem. Florence would launch a thousand ships for him to look at her in such a way for the rest of her life.

He drags her down gravel pathways, pointing to various plants, explaining how he had struggled in different ways to master their intricacies. There is bitterroot – wide, flat pink blooms – and Tom reminds her of their first Herbology lesson, and there white rosebushes lurking between tropical plants where normally they could never grow without the aid of enchantment.

“There were white roses along the balcony at your debut,” he explains, taking her hand and pulling her forward, deeper into the jungle he’d built for the two of them before she can respond. Florence allows him to reveal the world he’d crafted for her, amazed by it all, awestruck by the level of detail, that no space remained unfilled, that each plant sang as if in the prime of its health. And then suddenly he turns back to smirk at her, his midnight eyes sinful, and he tugs her around the final curve of the winding path and the view opens before her.

It is a large square field, sunk two stone steps down to a thick mat of grass. Paths of cropped grass have been cut through the wilder tufts in each of the four cardinal directions – one directly before them, all four leading in, towards the sight that beyond anything else she has seen thus far leaves her breathless.

Rows of azalea, blooms of deepest orange formed into an octagon narrowing in towards a thicket of Dittany, likewise growing in an eight sided shape. Tears spring to her eyes at once because it takes no great intelligence to understand what Tom has tone, the pieces of her life he has put together, binding the stages of her own past with his magic into one.

“It’s based upon the Allman family home,” Tom explains, and his voice has taken on an echoing quality. “Eight sided like the center of your parent’s house, but I went for a bit more of a flare – an entire copse of heart trees instead of one.”

“ _Tom,”_ Florence moans, because how could anyone have done this for her? How could she have ever deserved this? She does not feel herself move, all she knows is that one moment she is in his grasp and the next she is moving down the path, pulling off her shoes as she goes so her toes can sink into the ground, her fingers can brush across the orange petals beneath her fingers. They are waxen and silk-like, beating with a steady pulse that is one part Tom, the other part distinctly not, slower, a drawl, the easy smile of Forsythe Blount. Florence stares at them, the way they ripple in a faint breeze like tongues of flame, and her heart feels as if it is seeping out of her rips and onto the grass below her.

“I requested cuttings from the original field,” a sonorous voice murmurs behind her, and Florence turns to see Tom standing with his hands behind his back, dark hair ruffled slightly from the work of her fingers, his face still alight with pleasure at his magical abilities. He has never been more beautiful.

“Thank you,” Florence whispers, and Tom steps forward, pinching her chin in his grasp before brushing his lips across hers, a whisper of the sentiment that she can feel echoing across his magic.

“If you would, I’d like to show you the center before we see either of the wings.”

Florence nods, her hand finding his again, content to follow him wherever he leads. She’d follow him to the ends of the Earth if that was where he took her.

They move through the rows of orange blooms, Florence observing the two wings of jungle like expanses that peel off from the central arboretum, aware vaguely that the wisteria filled dome is perfectly centered over the copse of Dittany trees, the falling petals culminating somewhere in the center of the trees. As they draw closer, the cardinal path cutting through the shrubs and thicket before them, the first few whiffs of Dittany reach her – silvery sage, round leaves whispering to her: _welcome home, welcome home._ Tom smiles down at her briefly, and then he tugs her under the boughs and they walk as one through the shadows to the center.

They reappear in an octagonal space the size of the main sitting room back at the lodge, grass carpeting the space, leading them towards a still pond of clear water where the wisteria petals fall, leaving the surface white and lavender and deepest purple, like a sea of cotton candy. Florence’s mouth falls open, her system unsure how many more shocks she can take as Tom pulls her to a halt before the pond, their gazes fixing at the same time upon the marble figure reclining upon the pedestal.

“Achilles,” Florence whispers. The statue does not move, lounging upon his side, head thrown back in agony as his hand reaches for the arrow that has pierced his heel. Florence feels her eyes move over the curve of his throat, the milkiness of his eyes, unable to observe for long the unquestioning pain that shines in his face.

“He was the last thing I added,” Tom tells her, this time his hand twitching in hers. Florence swallows, some part of her brain registering that his voice is still echoing and quiet. “He is a reminder to me.”

“Of what?”

“The consequences of our choices.”

Florence does not need clarification, but her hand tightens around his, head falling upon the point of his shoulder as they stand side by side in the most intimate of spaces, their memories made real.

“Florence,” Tom begins after a moment, and she looks up at him to see that his skin is paler than usual, his eyes frantic as they look at the statue, as if he is preparing himself to do something. “I have something to tell you, and I fear that it will render you furious.” His voice maintains the same echoing quality it has, but there is a razor beneath it, a line of smoke that Florence recognizes now as fear.

“You can tell me,” Florence whispers, and she cannot fathom what he could say that would erase what he has done for her today, over these past few months. She can feel where their magic is mingling, like something potent resting in the space between their palms. “I promise I will listen.”

Tom surprises her next not by speaking, but by reaching into his pocket and pulling forth a small vial. It takes her a moment to recognize it because the color is off – moss instead of pale sage – but she would know that cut crystal anywhere.

“What happened too it?” She asks, taking the Dittany concentrate from his hand, even the heat within the potion different, altered.

“I modified it – long ago,” Tom explains, and his voice is barely audible, less than a whisper. “Rejuvenating spells, shredded Agrimony picked on the new moon for restoration, and Hyssop sap for purification.”

Florence feels her blood run cold as he lists the adjustments he had made. She was familiar with the ingredients, expensive, potent if picked at the right time, and if added to Dittany concentrate…. _he would not have_ Florence thinks to herself, a shiver running the length of her body. _He would_ another voice interjects, and Florence wishes it were not so but the second voice is louder, the truth in its words palpable.

“I gave the mixture to June and Cash during one of my visits to your home,” he continues. “It is a self-replenishing potion, intended to give long life to the drinker. They need only place one drop in your morning coffee every day, and it would halt the worst effects of time.”

Florence hears his voice, but her mind is far away, recalling the accusatory stares from the people of Spectre as she and Forsythe moved through the crowd. The questions in Albion’s face, the shrillness in Owen’s voice when he’d asked if she’d done something to her magic, to her body to render the change in her appearance. _He wouldn’t have_ she tries to tell herself again, but Florence has never been good at lying.

“I thought only of myself Florence, of securing a way to make you mine throughout the centuries.” Ice is seeping into her thoughts now, slowing her body until ever breath is like a knife between the ribs, his voice stinging and cold. “I never dreamt of what would happen to you should we separate, in my blindness it never truly occurred to me that a time might come where you were not mine.”

“So it’s your fault,” Florence mutters, and suddenly she cannot stand, collapsing onto the sandstone lip of the pond, her head resting in her hands. At once Tom is on his knees before her, his body wedging its way between her legs, his hands wrapping around her forearms as if he could bind the two of them together.

“Florence,” he says, and how can he say her name as if it was everything beautiful after what he had done to her? _“Florence_.” His face is nearly feral, his magic prickling along her skin as his hands become sweaty around her arms. Tom’s face is more alive than she has ever seen it, situated just beneath her own so that he must look up at her, so that she is forced to see every inch of the pain that seems to radiate from his skin.

And then, to her utmost horror because she had not thought it possible, his eyes brim over with tears, spilling over the edge and running down his cheeks like tiny pearls upon a plane of marble. Florence’s entire body freezes, uncertain what to do, how to comfort him because _never_ has Tom Riddle cried, _never_ has he broken thus before her, and her heart cannot decide if it should thrash him or pull him close.

Tom makes the choice for her, pressing his face to her stomach, his arms wrapping around her waist so that she can feel the shaking in his shoulders. Without thinking, a gut reaction to be near him, her hands fall to his head, tangling in the curls there.

“Florence I do not regret it,” he murmurs between choked sobs, as if his own lungs are betraying him. “I regret only to have caused you pain, but if the past error of my ways has resulted in this second life with you, I cannot fault the decision, no matter how flawed, how selfish it may seem.”

Florence does not respond, but she presses his face closer to her stomach, her other hand slipping down his back and resting between his shoulder blades. His heaving breaths vibrate up her arms, his magic trickling across her skin, his tears cold against her shirt that is soon soaked. _I regret only to have caused you pain_ his voice hums in her ears, and seemingly against her will Florence’s face turns up to the dome above, umber gaze watching as a few stray petals drift downward from the ceiling overhead, dancing upon the wind and through the rays of afternoon light until landing upon the surface of the pond.

They sit in silence for some time, Florence digesting his words as she watches the petal-fall, Tom with his face pressed to her stomach until his breathing returns to normal. Her mind feels strangely numb, her hand absent mindedly rubbing Tom’s back if for nothing more than to remind her that he is real, that she is alive.

“Can I tell you something,” Florence asks at last, and she feels Tom stiffen beneath her grasp, his head pulling away from her stomach slowly. Florence lets out an annoyed huff of air, a breathy chuckle slipping from her lips because _of course_ Tom Riddle would be beautiful even when crying, the blue of his eyes magnified by red-rimmed eyelids, lips pink and bitten and _begging_ her to press her mouth to his.

“Anything,” he murmurs, his voice still croaking. Florence resumes raking her fingers through his hair, unable to look away, carefully weighing each word in her mind until she feels Tom’s body tremble against hers.

“Dumbledore came to me, decades after I was married,” she begins, and the hardly perceptible widening of his eyes is the only reaction Tom gives away. “He asked about you, about why we had parted, and I told him that you had split your soul, that you had murdered your father and Myrtle Warren.”

She can tell when he stops breathing because suddenly there is no warm brush of air against her tear-stained stomach. Florence feels a rogue smile spread across her face, wan and toothless, but a smile nonetheless.

“So you see, I was the one who took your dream of immortality away from you. I was the one who gave him the information he needed to defeat you, in the end.” She brushes back the waves that obscure his forehead, driving her nails into his scalp in the manner that usually leaves him boneless in her grasp.

“It was a useless dream in the end,” he croaks. “Without you in it.”

“All the same, we’ve hurt each other.”

She bends just enough for her lips to hover millimeters above his upturned face, and then directing her mouth to his ear, she murmurs three words she has said to him before, three words that are a pathetic encapsulation for the feelings Tom stirs within her, but they are the only three words she has. Tom’s hands shake upon her back, and then to her surprise he reaches up to cup her face, pulling her ear to his mouth and repeats them – the same three words she had never thought to hear from him.

For a moment everything is silent, and then the world starts spinning once more, Tom altering the very fabric of her reality again as only he can until there is nothing but the two of them and the world they have built together.

“I am still angry with you,” Florence tells him, pulling back so that she can meet his gaze. “For taking away my choice, for pushing me away from my family.” Tom swallows beneath her, but his eyes are burning once more, two embers that tear into her skin. “But I do not regret this,” Florence whispers, her body curling forward so that her lips brush against his. “I have never regretted _this.”_

He kisses her and she can feel every nerve within her body, ignited by this thing that has always lived between them. Inevitable and elemental and magic, magic, _magic._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope to have the epilogue up in 30 minutes<3
> 
> so grateful for all of you


	58. Epilogue: Five Years Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> queue the *It's happening people* gif here
> 
> I'm screaming internally and physically crying on the outside cause I am DRAMATIC
> 
> seriously you guys are the best. aways have been - always will be. Let me know what you think here at the end<3

**Epilogue: Five Years Later**

Florence lays back on the grass, her legs hanging over the terrace and swinging like a child’s as she tries to regain her breath. She was in perfectly fine physical form after their years of traveling, but there was something about the altitude that made her lungs scream and her head swim until she thought she might topple off the side of the mountain. Beside her Tom snorts at Florence’s dramatics, his dark gaze glancing out over the horizon, water bottle clutched in his delicate grasp.

“I can’t believe NoMaj’s managed to hike up and down this all the time,” Florence says after her head has stopped pounding, sitting up to observe the smooth, gray ruins beneath her.

“I offered to buy us a portkey,” Tom reminds her, standing up and stretching before moving to seat himself behind her, his arms snaking around her waist and his face burying itself in her neck. Florence flushes.

“I wanted to hike up,” she reminds him. “It’s one of the only civilizations where magical and non-magical people coexisted peacefully together, and I thought it would be beneficial to see how the NoMaj’s managed to live here.”

“I can’t say I picked up any insight from our hike,” Tom mutters into her skin, his lips latching onto her shoulder and sucking with such force that she has no doubt it will leave a mark. Florence elbows him, and Tom grunts, the sound morphing into a dark chuckle before her returns his lips to her neck.

“Our guide will be back any moment,” Florence hisses, hating the way her body was responding to him with so little prompting. _You’d think you would be used to it_.

“No,” Tom murmurs, and his voice is deeper still. “He won’t. I slipped him a sleeping draught in his water at lunch.”

“ _Tom!”_ Florence chastises even as she rolls her head to the side, giving him better access to her skin.

“He’s a wizard, Florence. He’ll be fine.”

Florence sighs her distaste, but Tom was unchangeable in some ways – this she had come to accept. Turning her face to his, she presses her hand to his jaw and pulls his lips against hers briefly, relishing in the tingle of magic that still moves between their forms.

“What should we do with all of this unexpected time,” Tom leers when they pull apart, and Florence rolls her eyes.

“You’re insatiable.”

“Yes,” Tom agrees readily, his hands sliding under her shirt where they move across the plane of her stomach, his touch as light as a feather. Florence’s head falls back upon his shoulder, her eyes flickering closed as she feels one delicate fingered hand slide beneath the waistband of her pants.

“So where to text,” he whispers, his breath warm against her ear as his hand sets to work, Florence’s legs falling open, helpless to his touch.

“I thought,” she pants, her back arching as he slides into her, motions slow and deft and teasing. “That we might go home – to the Lodge.”

“Is that so?” He murmurs, and his voice is a sin. Florence bites back a moan, her hand coming to rest upon his thigh as the heat in her stomach builds.

“I’m t-t-tired,” she stutters. “And I’d like to regroup.”

Tom does not answer, but a moment later his speed increases until Florence is finishing in a flash of blinding white, his name a whisper upon her lips that is carried away by the wind.

“I would also like to regroup,” Tom agrees, pulling his hand from her pants as if nothing has happened.

“I’ve made a list of plants we’ve come across on our trip that I’d like to add to the conservatory, perhaps we could work on that?” She poses, allowing her eyes to move across the mountain filled skyline before them. Tom’s body is warm against her back, strong and narrow and familiar. “That is, if you don’t mind me adding too it.”

“The conservatory is yours, Florence. Do what you will with it.”

“ _Ours_ ,” she counters, taking his hands in hers and wrapping his arms once more around her waist.

They sit in silence for some time after that, Florence nearly falling into slumber on several occasions, lured into a sense of calm by the familiar thrill of Tom’s magic, the arms entangled with her own, but each time she feels the hum of the earth and the song of the peoples who had once resided there, and her eyes flicker open anew, observing the ruins before them.

They had been traveling across North, Central, and South America for the past few years, investigating ancient sites of the native wizarding peoples in each area. It had lead them far and wide, revealing to them magic as they had never known it, land that sang with enchantment deeper than even Hogwarts or the MACUSA Capital. Florence had suggested it to Tom only a few months after he’d given her the Conservatory, her desire for magical knowledge awakened by him, desperate to learn more about the people who had shaped the land. Tom had agreed at once – he alone had ever understood her hunger for magical knowledge, to be _more_ than the abilities she was born with.

“You know,” Florence muses, watching as a pair of NoMaj’s move through the ruins. “I once suggested to Forsythe that we elope here.”

“To Machu Picchu?” Tom asks, somewhat surprised. Florence laughs, hands tightening around his.

“No, to Peru,” she explains. “Planning a wedding is a dreadful business. Count yourself lucky you weren’t there to be harassed by my mother.”

“And I assume Forsythe turned down this idea?”

“He said he didn’t want to be murdered by Tallulah for ruining her plans for _our_ wedding.” Behind her Tom lets out a small laugh, his head twisting so that he can press another kiss to her lips.

“Well,” Tom murmurs, and at once Florence is aware of the strange echo in his voice. One of his hands leaves her waist, and she hears it rummaging through his bag. “Forsythe may not have been keen on the idea, but I’ve been searching for a place to give you _this_ , and here seems as good a place as any.”

Tom’s hand returns and with it is a small, blue velvet box, lid upturned to reveal a large, ovular diamond set onto a silver band. Each facet seemed to glisten in the afternoon sun, its beauty only aided by the backdrop. Florence feels herself stiffen, the hand still holding his squeezing the life slowly from his fingers.

“I no longer wish for marriage,” Tom admits. “I have grown too fond of your name as it is – _Florence Allman_.” He whispers her name into her ear, and every cell in her body responds as if he has just uttered a spell. “But it would be dishonest of me not to say that the idea of you wearing my symbol upon your skin leaves me as breathless as it did when we were eighteen.”

“And this ring is only a ring? There isn’t a piece of your soul in it?” Florence whispers, her voice meant to be teasing, but she cannot draw in enough air for her tone to come across so.

“No, only a ring.”

“Will you put it on me?” She asks.

“Of course.”

Tom plucks the ring from the case with sure movements, his hand warm as he slides it down over her knuckle, the ring adjusting to fit her, resting silver against the gold of Forsythe’s wedding band. Florence stares at the stone for some time, flexing her fingers to see how the diamond shone in the light.

“If I get you one, silver to match mine, would you wear it?”

She turns to look at him, amazed still that anyone could be so beautiful. That she could be seated at one of the magical and NoMaj wonders of the world and yet be struck breathless by Tom Riddle. That they could have built a life together from ashes, nurturing something new and enchanting into being.

Tom does not answer, but his face breaks out into a smile, luminescent and golden and the only answer that Florence needs.

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we have reached the end, and for the first time ever I’m pre-writing my Author’s Note because I want to make sure that I get my words correct.
> 
> Without getting into it, I think we can all agree that 2020 has been a difficult year. It has been a difficult time in general to be a human and to be alive, and I personally have struggled this year in ways that often left me at my lowest level. Despite these challenges, I can safely say that writing this story has never been a part of one of my 2020 lows. In fact, it has been a rare highlight, a way for me to be distracted from my often corrosive worries and to feel connected to my creative side. Remembering beauty through Florence, while sounding cliché, has been such a gift for me during these days, and I will miss her immensely. 
> 
> But, it would be grossly dishonest of me if I did not admit that the best part of this process has been connecting with you: my readers. Fanfiction is so unique because it brings people across the world together to share a story, and its chapter by chapter format means that I can receive immediate feedback from you! I’ve written other things before, but never in my life have I had such loyal followership. I truly don’t even know where to begin or how to express what your support as readers throughout this tale has meant to me as a writer, and more importantly, to me as a person living in 2020. Your praises lifted me to my highest of highs, and your constructive criticisms made me want to be a better writer. I genuinely leave my tabs open, refreshing to see your thoughts. I am touched to the deepest part of my being that so many of you have taken the time to comment over the months, to share your thoughts, to analyze my characters and my writing, and just to be overall kind people!! The bookmarks, the kudos, even the quick “nice chapters” were the most motivating, incredible feedback, and I hope that you all know that each of you has changed my life for the better: I’m coming out of this a more confident writer, and I’m enormously happy to have written this story. Thank you all for just being you!!!
> 
> 7 months and over 300,000 words. I probably needed a muzzle to cut back some, but in the end I’m pleased with the finished product, and a bit crushed to leave it behind. Some of you incredible people have asked what I have in store next, and to be frank – no idea! I might try and actually write a novel (smash the panic button) but maybe I’ll be writing another fic in a week. The world moventh in mysterious ways.  
> I would love to know your thoughts here at the end, whether you’ve commented a thousand time before or this is your first, I never tire of reading them, and as I hope I've made clear above, they mean the world to me. Thank you endlessly for the comments that kept me going, the community around Limited brings tears to my eyes when I think about it!!
> 
> If you come to this story ten years later, please know that I’ll probably still be keeping my tabs open looking for your comments, so feel free to let me know you’re here. Yes I’m that vain, but also yes, your thoughts really do mean that much to me. 
> 
> Everyone please stay safe, keep your head up, and feel free to send me a private message whether it's now or years into the future!! Xx Adslady
> 
> P.S. here is the rest of the playlist:  
> 14\. I Hope It's You - Rusty Clanton  
> 15\. River - Leon Bridges  
> 16\. Holy Lover - Keaton Henson  
> 17\. Oblivion - Bastille  
> 18\. July (ft. Leon Bridges) - Noah Cyrus  
> 19\. Don't Wanna Be Your Girl - Wet  
> 20\. Helplessly Hoping (2005 Remastered) - Crosby, Stills & Nash  
> 21\. Dirty AF1s - Alexander 23  
> 22\. Don't Think Twice, It's All Right - Bob Dylan  
> 23\. It's Not the Same Anymore - Rex Orange County  
> 24\. Do Friends Fall in Love - Rachel & Vilray  
> 25\. Starting Over - Chris Stapleton  
> 26\. Still Crazy After All These Years (Jim Eno Sessions) - SOHN


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